


Daffodil Time

by ladyblahblah



Series: The Ivy Crown [1]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff and Angst, Infidelity, Kid Fic, M/M, Mind Meld, Psychic Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-01
Updated: 2012-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-30 09:38:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 18
Words: 88,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/330329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyblahblah/pseuds/ladyblahblah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Because the kid who’s coming is <i>Vulcan</i>, for heaven’s sake.  There’s nothing fun about Vulcans.  They’re logical and boring and, if Jim’s being completely honest, just the tiniest bit scary.  And this is the boy who will be in his house, sharing his room, sleeping in his brother’s bed.  How is he even supposed to start trying to make friends with someone so . . . well, alien?</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Right, so.  I, um, really hope you're reading this, because it's going to be important.  First: blame [](http://momo-girlie.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://momo-girlie.livejournal.com/)**momo_girlie**  .  Seriously.  It's all her fault.  There were the drawings, and the squeeing over the cute, and then the plotbunnies came and it was just all . . . yeah.  I thought it would be fun to write little vignettes about her truly flail-worthy art, and it was supposed to be random adorableness and nothing more.  Then there was a plot mutation (seriously, I've got to stop doing that) and before I knew it it had turned into a whole semi-epic span of Kirk and Spock's relationship from tiny children up through the movie that is necessitating index cards and a freakin' outline.
> 
> The 'verse this is set in is something of an amalgam.  It's obviously heavily influenced by the new movie.  However, the original universe for the drawings was closer to TOS, so there's a bit of that in there.  And then there are the parts of both that I decided just didn't work and chucked into the bin altogether.  I expect it to be a bit of a challenge to maintain all of this and still keep the boys recognizable, but I'm nothing if not ambitious.  And if I'm doing my job right, you shouldn't have to have seen the movie or the series or have anything more than the most basic grasp of Star Trek to figure out what's going on.  *fingers crossed*
> 
> My original goal here was pretty much just to get more art. Then it sort of mutated, and took over my brain, and now this is just the first of a three-part series called The Ivy Crown.

 

 

 

 

 

Jim Kirk is not best pleased.

He’s hunkered down in the attic, wedged in amongst the boxes filled with all the things that make his mom too sad to keep in the house and even sadder to think of throwing away.  There are times when he suspects that she would have put him up here, too, if she could; packed him in a box and stored him away where she wouldn’t have to see him and remember.  But even so, she never thinks to look for him here.  There’s something about that that seems strange to him, but the specifics of it elude him.  He settles himself more comfortably and decides not to think about it.

It isn’t that he’s hiding . . . exactly.  That is to say, he’s not afraid, or nervous, or shy the way that everyone seems to think he will be.  James Tiberius Kirk has never been shy a single day in his five and a half years of life.  He just doesn’t like the idea of strange people coming to stay with them, that’s all.  And for _months_.  That’s practically forever.  His mom keeps reminding him that her friend will be bringing her son, a boy just about Jim’s age, as though that will make him _more_ excited rather than less.

Sam’s no help, either.  He’s started staying over at their aunt and uncle’s farm more often than not, and Jim knows the grownups have been talking about him going to stay over there for good.  He’s attached to the farm now, and they’ve come to rely on his help.  Jim thinks he’ll probably end up going.  It’s not as though it’s far away—the family properties run right up against each other—but the thought of his big brother no longer living in their house, not even only technically, makes him feel almost unspeakably lonely.  Sam seems to think that it will be good for Jim to have another kid around this summer.  Someone to keep him company, Sam said.

Jim suspects that his brother might have lost his mind a little bit.

Because the kid who’s coming is _Vulcan_ , for heaven’s sake.  There’s nothing fun about Vulcans.  They’re logical and boring and, if Jim’s being completely honest, just the tiniest bit scary.  And this is the boy who will be in his house, _sharing his room_ , sleeping in his brother’s bed.  How is he even supposed to start trying to make friends with someone so . . . well, alien?

He idly flips the pages of the album in his lap.  If he goes downstairs again his mom will just find something else for him to do.  She had him out cutting flowers last time.  Flowers!  He isn’t a girl, what does he care about flowers?  And she knows he’s allergic, too.  Well.  Should know, anyway.  Better to stay put until he hears her calling.  He’s gotten very good at telling by the tone of her voice when she’s about to cross the line from irritated to truly angry.  He’ll turn up then.

Jim is glad that at least Frank is gone, off on a shipping run to somewhere, to be honest Jim wasn’t really paying attention to the explanation.  It isn’t that Frank was bad, exactly.  It isn’t even that Jim doesn’t like him.  His mom smiles more when Frank is there; she forgets to look at him like she’s seeing someone else, and he can just be Jim.  Just be her son.  But no matter that he’s been around for months and looks like he might be around even longer, when it comes right down to it Frank is just another stranger.  Things are different when he’s around.  Jim is to young to name this feeling, this craving for stability, but he’s not too young to feel it.  He can deal with Frank, or he can deal with Vulcans.  He doesn’t think he can deal with both, and he’s glad he doesn’t have to try.

He’s getting to the best part of the album now, and he turns his focus from the upcoming invasion—which is still how he’s thinking of it in his head even if his mom said he couldn’t say it out loud anymore—to the pages in front of him.  Holographic chips give way to real paper cards, hardly even yellowed with age.  Mostly he studies them through the layer of protective plastic, his eyes following the lines of the players’ bodies, imagining that at any moment it could spring to life with the crack of a bat or the heavy thump of a baseball into a leather glove.  He took one out when he first found them a month ago, though, to hold in his hand for just a few precious seconds.  The cards are thick, a layer of gloss still gleaming on the surface.

His father’s hands had been there before.  Were probably the only hands to touch those cards until Jim had found them again.

He’s terrified enough of damaging them that he hasn’t touched them again since.

His mother’s voice breaks in on him from far away and he lifts his head, listening carefully.

“Jim!  Where are you?”

There’s already an edge of exasperation in her voice; he must not have heard her start to call him.  He hurries to put the album away, tucking it back in its box with one final fond pat.  Then he scrambles up and over to the trapdoor that leads down into the house proper, drops as quietly as he can into the hallway outside of his room.  He’s climbing through his window and down the side of the house before his mom would even be able to think about checking on any noises she might have heard.

He doesn’t want her to know that he’s been in the attic.  He’s never stopped to examine why that might be, but he knows it just the same.

Her tone is edging towards the danger zone by the time he clatters his way up the porch.

“Jim!”

“Yeah, Mom?”  He lets the door slam behind him and tries to figure out where her voice is coming from.

“Where were you?”  She’s in the kitchen, and he heads that way.  She sounds calmer now that he’s answered.  “I must have called you a dozen times.”

“Playing outside.  Can I have a snack?”  He climbs into a chair at the table and watches his mother’s face fall when she turns to look at him.

“Oh, _Jimmy_.”  Her shoulders slump as her eyes rake him over from head to toe.  Slender hands find her hips and Jim squirms.  “What were you doing, rolling around on the ground?  You’re filthy.”

He hadn’t thought about how dusty the attic was.  Oops.  “Can I have an apple?” he tries with a winsome grin.  Maybe if he asks for something healthy instead of the cookies he was angling for it would distract her.

“No, you can not.”  No dice.  “I spent all morning telling you they’d be here by noon, but I swear it must go in one ear and out the other.”  She reaches out and tugs him from the chair.  “I got Amanda’s message that they’ve arrived in Des Moines, so they should be here any minute.  So what you _can_ do is march upstairs and get cleaned up so that you look like a little boy instead of a wild animal.”  She gives him a gentle push towards the stairs.  “Scoot.”

“I’m not a little boy,” he grumbles, but slouches off, prepared to splash his face with water and run a comb through his hair once or twice.  The noise of an aircar outside builds and shuts off when he’s just reached the bottom of the stairs.

He’s through the door and out on the porch before he remembers that he’s supposed to be upset, not excited.

The first thing he notices is how gracefully the pair that’s descending from the ‘car move, as though gravity is simply something that they politely tolerate.  The second thing, and really it can’t be understated, is how _weird_ they look.

The woman looks human enough; not surprising since he knows she _is_ human.  She and his mom attended Starfleet Academy together, were friends when his mom met his dad and Amanda Grayson met Ambassador Sarek.  But she’s dressed like a Vulcan—he assumes—in stiff fabrics and dull neutral colors, a scarf wound loosely around her head.  She looks like his least favorite kind of adult, stern and unsmiling.  Like an amplified version of what he sees as his own mother’s worst traits.

But though it’s been years since they’ve seen each other, here’s serious, responsible Winona Kirk flying out of the house and practically colliding with the other woman with a delighted yell.  And this strange woman is wrapping her arms tightly around her friend, unaware or uncaring when her scarf slips off and dark hair whips about freely in a sudden burst of wind.  They’re clinging and laughing and chattering at each other in what hardly seems like Standard it’s so incomprehensible.

Then, hovering near the parked aircar and managing to look completely unsure without moving a single muscle in his face, there’s the boy.  At least, Jim assumes it’s a boy because that’s what he’s been told to expect.  But he’s wearing what looks an awful lot like a dress, dark purple over a scratchy-looking gray shirt and black leggings— _tights_ , Jim thinks uncharitably.  He’s clutching a case nearly as big as he is, and no, there’s no _way_ he’s Jim’s age.  He’s too little, his face is too round, and great, on top of everything else Jim’s going to have to deal with a little _baby_ tagging along.  Just great.

“Jimmy!”  He climbs reluctantly down from the porch and shuffles over to his mother’s side.  “Amanda, this is my youngest, James.  Jim.”  Her hand tightens painfully on his shoulder, the way it always does when she introduces him to someone new, as though just saying her name is hard for her.

He looks up, and maybe it was the scarf before because the woman in front of him doesn’t look stern or mean at all.  Instead she’s smiling down softly at him, her eyes lit with genuine pleasure, as though she’s met him a million times before and this is just a reunion she’s been looking forward to.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.”  Her voice is as soft as her smile.  He can’t hear pity in it, or regret, or any of the things he usually hears when people figure out who he is.  He decides he likes her.  “This is my son, Spock.”  The boy behind her comes forward obediently.  “I hope you’ll show him around while we’re here.  He’s just a year older than you are, so the two of you should be able to find lots to talk about.”  Jim’s face must give away his disbelief, because Spock’s face tightens even as his mother laughs.  “I know, he probably looks young to you.”  She runs a fond hand through his hair and Jim gives an internal wince of sympathy.  “Vulcans tend to live quite a bit longer than we do; their rate of aging is slower.”

“I’m sure Jim will be happy to have another playmate around,” his mom says with a warning look sent his way.  “Sam, my oldest, is over at my sister-in-law’s place so often.  He’ll be back for dinner tonight, though, and you’ll get to meet him then.  Oh, lord, look at me, keeping you two standing out here!  Come in, we’ll get you all settled.  Help Spock get his bags to your room, sweetie.”

The two boys stare at one another for a moment, sizing each other up while their mothers make their way inside.  Jim takes in the tilted eyebrows, the straight, shiny hair . . . the ears.  Perhaps inevitably, he’s the one who speaks first.  “So you’re half-Vulcan.”

That must be wrong, because Spock’s shoulders stiffen.  “I am a Vulcan,” he says coolly.  “My genetic makeup is half human, but I have been raised to follow the teachings of Surak.”

He can’t help it; he laughs.  There’s no way not to, with the other boy so stiff and formal.  “Surak?”  Jim scratches the tip of his nose.  “Is he like a teacher of yours?”  He doesn’t wait for an answer, just grabs Spock’s case with a grunt of effort.  “Geez, did you try to pack the whole planet with you?”

“I am perfectly capable of—”

“It’s cool, I’ve got it.”  He doesn’t, not really, but there’s no need for Spock to know that.  “You’re sleeping in Sam’s bed.”  The idea doesn’t seem as terrible now as it did less than an hour ago.  “C’mon.”

“I am used to a stronger gravitational pull.”  Spock scurries after him as he protests.  “The weight will seem less to me.”

“Really?”  Jim drops the case to regard him in interest.  “That’s sort of cool.  So are you, like, super strong here on Earth?  Like Superman?”  A blank look meets him.  “Y’know, like in the comics?”

There’s an expression he can’t read on Spock’s face, there and then gone in an instant.  “I am unfamiliar with the subject to which you are referring.”  It sounds like a confession, and Jim’s jaw drops.

“Don’t you have comic transmissions on Vulcan?  That’s like . . . inhuman.”

A single upswept eyebrow raises.  “Yes.”

Jim snorts then.  Spock is actually pretty funny, he’s finding.  “I’ve got some PADDS upstairs with a bunch of issues stored, I’ll show you what I mean.”  He picked up the case again.  “But we’ve gotta get inside first.”

There’s a pause from the boy behind him, and then a voice saying, “Thank you, James.”

Jim turns around to grin at him.  It had sounded rehearsed, as though he hadn’t been sure how exactly it would sound when he said it for real.  “No problem.  And everyone calls me Jim.”

Spock’s hair gleams in the sunlight as he tilts his head thoughtfully.  “James is your given name.”

“Well, yeah.  ‘Jim’ is a nickname.  Like . . . a shorter version.”

That eyebrow goes up again.  “Jim is no shorter an appellation.  Your given name is perfectly adequate; such an alternative is illogical.”

Jim rolls his eyes and starts into the house again.  This is looking like it will be a very strange summer.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Because the kid who’s coming is _Vulcan_ , for heaven’s sake. There’s nothing fun about Vulcans. They’re logical and boring and, if Jim’s being completely honest, just the tiniest bit scary. And this is the boy who will be in his house, sharing his room, sleeping in his brother’s bed. How is he even supposed to start trying to make friends with someone so . . . well, alien?_

 

It has been one point seven eight weeks since their arrival at the Kirk farm, and Spock is still as baffled by Humans as he ever was.  
  
Everything about them seems strange.  Part of him is thankful for this, grateful for the opportunity to study a culture so disparate to his own.  That part of him is glad that his mother was able to convince his father that Spock should accompany her on her visit to an old friend rather than attending the summer-long ambassadorial symposium with Sarek in France.  Though he would have had a wider pool from which to gather observations on Human behavior, the interactions would undoubtedly have lacked the honesty and depth of those to which he is privy in this simple Iowa farmhouse.  
  
The other, larger part of him, however, is approximately six years, five months, eighteen days and nine point eight hours old and is consumed by a shameful yet undeniable longing for the familiarity of home.  
  
Humans sleep for an inordinately long time; Spock had noticed his mother’s greater need for rest, of course, but he somehow had not extrapolated her personal habits to that of her entire species.  His father has informed him that such a need is caused by a difference in circadian rhythms.  Vulcan completes its rotation more slowly than does Earth; thus Vulcan physiology is programmed to require sleep with less frequency.  Eminently logical.  Such knowledge does little, however, to ease his tedium when only he in all the house—indeed, it sometimes seems in all the world—is awake and alert in the middle of the night.  
  
Humans also touch each other with disturbing frequency, he notes.  Unlike human sleeping patterns, this is a tendency that he has never before noted in his mother.  He presumes that she has adjusted to Vulcan norms and preferences in her years of living on that planet.  Here, however, she frequently reaches to touch Winona Kirk on the shoulder for her attention, or to initiate a hug.  She touches Spock more often than she ever has, as well, and he is surprised to learn that he does not object, though he feels as though he should.  It does not occur to him that Humans might need touch, need it as deeply as Vulcans need distance.  He sees, however, that she is more at ease here, that her smile comes easier, and he is glad for it.  Her smile sets her apart from other mothers at home, and though he would not admit it he enjoys the sight of it.  
  
The instinct to touch, he quickly realizes, is not his mother’s alone.  Mrs. Kirk is every bit as tactile, both with Spock’s mother and with her own son.  He has already observed on multiple occasions her tendency to snatch him on his way past, as though plucking something precious from the air, and hold him to her.  His struggles and protests are to no avail; indeed, Spock suspects that they only cause her to tighten her grip.  He further suspects that James knows this, and that his supposed distaste is actually a strange bid for more of his mother’s attention.  
  
Such circuitous logic is infuriating and . . . fascinating.  
  
James himself is a creature of contradictions, and it is those inconsistencies that fascinate Spock so thoroughly.  He is almost frighteningly intelligent, but his intellect is often overshadowed by bursts of immature and illogical behavior.  The first night of their stay he had insisted on assembling what he called a “fort” in the narrow space between their beds using an odd combination of pillows and blankets collected from around the house.  When Spock had pointed out that such a construction was hardly sturdy enough to withstand an attack—indeed, it fell down three times before finally declared completed—James had simply rolled his eyes and tugged Spock inside with him with no concern for the invasion of his personal space.  For three point seven five hours they had examined James’s substantial collection of comics, some stored on data chips and some printed on replicated paper, and for all that time James’s enthusiasm had never waned.  
  
Yet Spock stood by merely two days later and listened to the boy explain to his mother that he had borrowed her book on warp theory to look up an equation he was unable to remember.  The resulting conversation had lasted sixteen point two seven minutes while he attempted clarification on several details in the book that he had not understood, and ended with Mrs. Kirk relinquishing the book with a resigned sigh and a reminder that James was not to enter her room without permission.  
  
Today, James’s self-appointed project is to teach Spock to ride the strange object that he calls a bicycle.  
  
“Not all bikes fold up like this,” he explains as Spock watches him pull a complicated-looking tangle of metal out of something that James has identified as a backpack.  Sure, confident hands begin to straighten out pieces in what Spock assumes is a specific order but could just as easily be entirely random.  “Sam has a regular one he never uses, but I like this one better if I’m riding to town.  That way when I get there I can just fold it back up and carry it around with me instead of having to pay to store it somewhere.”  
  
“You are permitted to go by yourself?”  This does not seem in keeping with Mrs. Kirk’s insistence that they advance today no farther than the quarry, which James has assured him is ‘awesome’ and will be seen in due course.  
  
“Well, no, not exactly,” James admits quietly.  “But she sort of forgets to pay attention sometimes.”  He falls silent then, until he stands with a flourish several moments later and presents the contraption that he has assembled.  “Ta dah!  Okay, climb on.”  
  
Spock considers the object in front of him with unconcealed skepticism.  “James, I do not believe that this is a good idea.”  
  
“It’s a great idea.  Hey, if I teach you how to ride, will you stop calling me James?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Why not?” he demands in something perilously close to a whine, and Spock lifts an eyebrow.  
  
“Because that is your name,” he says placidly.  
  
James scowls for a moment, but then a laugh breaks through and he shakes his head.  He is given to these rapid changes in mood, Spock has noticed, and more inclined to good nature than ill.  
  
“Okay, fine.  Look, it’ll be fine, I’m right here.  I’ll hold on to the back while you figure out how to balance, so you don’t have to worry about falling over.”  
  
“I will not worry,” Spock says immediately.  He looks at the bicycle again.  It seems simple enough; a small cushion upon which to sit, pedals that turn the gears that turn the wheels, all of which will, presumably, result in forward motion.  And James has promised to keep him from falling.  “Very well.”  
  
He is wearing a tunic of Vulcan design that reaches halfway down his thighs, and maneuvering to straddle the seat proves to be something of a challenge.  He manages it at last, however, and tests the give of the machine beneath him, how easy it is to sway from side to side.  It does not seem, now that he is in place, as though it will be too difficult.  Still, he is glad that James is there to assist, his grip divided between one handlebar and the back of the seat.  
  
“All right, hold onto the handlebars.”  Spock complies.  “Good.  Now put one foot on the pedal, it doesn’t matter which one so long as it starts out higher.  Then you’re going to push off, and when the other pedal comes around slide your foot in.  I’m going to let go up front and just hold onto the back.  After that you just have to keep going and keep your balance.  Ready?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Okay . . . push off.”  
  
Spock gets off to an unsteady start, but the bicycle does not tip over as it threatens to do and with every revolution of the pedals his confidence grows.  He can clearly picture, once he is capable of manipulating the bicycle on his own, the two of them riding in this way to the quarry.  He wonders if it will look similar to those on Vulcan, though he doubts that it will.  It seems to him that an Earth quarry will be as chaotic and disordered as the rest of the planet, as free from his people’s careful structure as this boy that he is with.  Oddly, the idea is not unappealing.  Perhaps they could bring a selection of food with them, as James seems perpetually hungry.  
  
“Way to go, Spock!  You’re a natural!”  
  
Mild confusion at the phrase is lost in a sharp spike of concern when he realizes that James’s voice sounds much farther away than it should be.  He glances over his shoulder and his fear is confirmed: James is grinning at him from three meters back.  Spock is unsupported, completely on his own.  
  
The logical, Vulcan portion of his mind points out that with James at such a distance Spock has clearly traveled a fair way on his own, and is perfectly capable of maintaining both his balance and control of the bicycle.  
  
The ground chooses that moment to present a dissenting opinion in the form of a rock half-buried in the dirt, certainly avoidable had Spock been watching where he was going.  His distraction, however, proves his undoing.  Gravity, already unsettlingly weak on this planet, seems to release its grip on him entirely when the front wheel catches on the obstruction and comes to an abrupt stop.  He is sailing through the air, and then gravity reappears in a sudden rush and he is on the ground, dusty and dazed but unhurt.  
  
It is the shock of the crash and the quick rush of betrayal that overwhelms him as James hurries over.  He is only six years, five months, eighteen days and thirteen point six three hours old, and his control is not perfect.  He is away from the only home he has ever known.  He is humiliated and betrayed, and ashamed of feeling either emotion, and the sweeping unfairness of the moment is suddenly a crushing weight on his shoulders.  
  
An emotional break is imminently logical under these circumstances, and he begins to cry.  
  
He’s hardly aware that James has pulled him to his feet and is busy running his hands over Spock’s body to check for injuries.  He is crying as only a child his age can cry, blind and deaf in his misery to nearly everything around him.  He hears James’s voice, however, high and worried in his ears.  
  
“Are you okay?  Are you hurt?  I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to . . . you were doing so well, I thought it would be okay if I let go . . .”  Spock’s tears ease just enough for him to see James cast a worried look at the house.  “Don’t cry.  I’m really, really sorry.”  
  
Spock does not respond.  He can not, through the tears, and it seems beyond his power to stop them just yet.  James backs away, but he returns almost immediately holding out something brown and battered and soft.  Spock looks up, taking in James’s concerned expression and what appears to be a rough facsimile of a Terran housecat held in his outstretched hands.  
  
“Here.”  James holds the object out closer, and Spock reaches up to wipe away his tears and allow himself to see better.  “I keep him in my backpack with my bike.  When I fall it’s the only thing that makes me feel better.”  
  
Spock is dubious, but curiosity and some other emotion, unnamed and unexplored, prompt him to take the thing from James’s hands.  It is soft, not unlike an oddly shaped pillow, and he holds it experimentally to his chest.  Black plastic eyes shine up at him and a soothing warmth spreads through his body.  He barely notices that he has stopped crying, but James does.  A relieved smile breaks across his face and he loops an arm over Spock’s shoulders, giving him a quick squeeze.  
  
Spock is sure that there is a certain logic behind what he does next.  As James’s arm retreats again, the thought occurs that holding something living would be more comforting than even an admittedly soft stuffed feline.  So Spock seizes that arm in his, holding it close as well without surrendering the cat.  He was correct, he finds almost immediately: his grip on James is steadying, soothing in a way that even his mother’s touch has never been.  
  
James looked momentarily shocked, but then he smiles softly and offers Spock a quick wink.  
  
“There.  Not so bad, is it.  You aren’t hurt, are you?”  
  
Spock sniffs.  “I am uninjured.”  Despite the comfort of the contact, he thinks that he might still be displeased with James.  
  
“You don’t touch people very much, do you?”  He doesn’t sound upset that Spock is clinging to him, but Spock tightens his grip in any case.  He is not ready to surrender his hold yet.  James laughs.  “It’s okay.  D’you want to sit down?”  
  
Spock considers, then nods.  “That would be agreeable.”  
  
It takes a bit of work, as Spock is insistent on maintaining contact, but eventually they both settle beneath the large tree that shades the front of the house.  James pulls a comic from his back pocket and rests it on his lap, flipping to a page he has marked with a turned down corner.  Spock recognizes the figure that flies across the page in bright primary colors, and he studies the pictures without concern for the words as his fingers stroke absently over synthetic fur.  
  
“Your interest in this character is greater than any other,” he observes after a moment.  “You have approximately three point four five times as many volumes in which he stars as you do the next highest number in your collection.”  
  
“Approximately three point four five.  Sure you can’t get any more exact than that?”  Spock recognizes the tone in James’s voice as one that indicates the other boy is engaged in an activity known as ‘teasing’.  He feels his face heat but does not pull away.  
  
“Any further and the decimal repeats indefinitely,” he says instead, oddly gratified when James laughs.  
  
“I like Superman.”  Dusty fingertips trace lightly over the glossy sweep of a cape.  “He always knows what to do, and he always wins eventually.  No matter what.  You don’t like it?”  
  
“The concept of superpowers is illogical.”  
  
“No, see, it’s totally not.  He’s an alien, right?  From another planet.  So whatever things were like there, it’s different here.  Like with you and gravity, how it makes it like you’re super strong.  Only on his planet maybe the gravity was like a million times more, so he can do stuff like throw a shuttlecraft and stop a starship midflight.”  
  
“There is no scientific cause sufficient to explain either his flight or his ability to shoot phaser blasts from his eyes.”  
  
“Well, no.  Still, it’s better now than it was before the last Crisis.  He had all sorts of crazy powers then, probably would have made your head explode.”  
  
Spock ignores the ridiculous unlikelihood of that scenario to ask, “What crisis?”  
  
“It’s a thing they do sometimes, the people who write this comic.  This last time was the forty-sixth Crisis.  When things aren’t going right with the story, they have . . . well, it’s like a big fight, or a catastrophe, or something, and they rework the rules.  A whole fresh start, like a reset button.  Cool, huh?”  
  
Spock decides to withhold his opinion for the sake of peace, and James goes back to reading.  He has turned the page twice before Spock speaks again.  
  
“You said that you would maintain your hold on the back of the bicycle.”  
  
“I know.”  James looks uneasy.  “But I had to let go eventually, you know.”  
  
“Then perhaps you should have told me that at the beginning,” Spock answers stiffly, “instead of assuring me otherwise.”  
  
“Sorry.”  From the corner of his eye Spock watches as James chews thoughtfully on his lip.  “I won’t do it again.  All right? I swear, I’ll never lie to you again.  We’ll have our own reset button on everything.”  
  
Spock looks up sharply; he had not realized it, but James is right.  What he said before had been a lie, and Spock is suddenly glad that he has had such limited experience with the concept.  But the blue eyes staring back at him are sincere, and Spock knows he does not even need to verify with a quick touch to James’s skin.  
  
“A reset button.”  He nods.  “That is acceptable.”  
  
James grins widely.  “All right then.  Promise.”  And before Spock can react the other boy is reaching down to hook Spock’s pinky with his own, linking them tightly together.  
  
He has already released him by the time Spock’s heart begins to pound hard against his side.  No one has ever touched his hands like that before; on Vulcan such a thing would never have even been considered.  But James has already turned back to his comic and seems singularly unconcerned with what he has done.  Spock remembers how tactile Humans are, how James’s mother has pressed Human kisses to her son’s cheeks, to the top of his head.  Perhaps this is something similar?  A friendly, even familial exchange?  The pointed exclusion of the first two fingers supports the theory, and Spock relaxes.  
  
A friendly kiss, then, perhaps even a brotherly one.  He has never heard of such a thing among Vulcans before, but is learning about an alien culture not the entire reason behind his trip?  Spock relaxes against James’s side, the counterfeit cat still tucked into the crook of one arm.  
  
He is dozing already when James pulls his arm free to wrap around Spock’s shoulders, and the sound of the other boy’s breath going deep and even with sleep prompts him to follow into healing rest.


	3. Daffodil Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Because the kid who’s coming is _Vulcan_ , for heaven’s sake. There’s nothing fun about Vulcans. They’re logical and boring and, if Jim’s being completely honest, just the tiniest bit scary. And this is the boy who will be in his house, sharing his room, sleeping in his brother’s bed. How is he even supposed to start trying to make friends with someone so . . . well, alien?_

**Author's Note:** Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeah, so . . . this bit sort of got away from me.  This isn't what I had planned on happening at all. *rolls eyes*  Stuff was actually supposed to happen, sort of.  Ah, well.  I also promised the appearance of a certain gentleman, and was overcome with fail.  Sorry, M!  He'll get here soon, though!  Next part, almost certainly.  The end result here feels a bit scattered, but I've picked at it as much as I can stand just now.

No warning for this bit, aside from the Sledgehammer of Foreshadowing.  Totally subtle, y'all, really.

Wanna know what Jim's PJs look like?  A little something like [this](http://fc08.deviantart.net/fs50/i/2009/332/7/a/A_Tiny_Nap_by_Anubis_Admirer.jpg).  D'awwwwww! XD  Lookit the little swirls of Spock's knees!!  *swoons*

 

 

[Part 1](http://ladyblahblah.livejournal.com/6283.html#cutid1)│[Part 2](http://ladyblahblah.livejournal.com/6944.html#cutid1)

 

  
They all know him here.  And so, after three weeks, they’re coming to know Spock as well.

The Vulcan boy had been—Jim thinks, probably—suitably impressed with the sight of the quarry.  Of course, the word doesn’t quite do justice to the reality: an enormous sweeping canyon that seems to go on forever in all directions, all hard right angles and an impossibly long drop to the bottom.  They’ve gone nearly every day for the past week.  Spock agrees to give the folding bike another chance after their first trip out, when he has to cling to Jim on the back of Sam’s sturdier bike for the hour it takes get there.  They pack sandwiches and carrot sticks—those are mostly for Spock—and cookies—those are mostly for Jim—and spend the day exploring.  Jim is determined to find a way down to the bottom.  Spock is just as determined to dissuade him from the effort.

“Even a small object dropped from such a height would result in instantaneous death if it hit you,” he says.  “It would be far more advisable to remain here at the top.”

Jim throws a carrot stick at him, grinning in delight when Spock snatches it out of the air.  “That’s the whole point.  Can’t you imagine all the _stuff_ there probably is at the bottom?  I’ll bet people have chucked loads of things over the edge.”  He tosses a pebble over as if to prove his point.  “Don’t you want to know what’s down there?”

Spock is intrigued, Jim can tell, just as he can tell that he doesn’t really want to be intrigued.

“The odds of anything surviving impact with the bottom of this gorge are so infinitesimal as to be nonexistent.”

“But they’re not nonexistent.  We could totally find something cool down there.”  He’s hopping on the balls of his feet.  “Where’s your sense of adventure?  C’mon, Spock; let’s be explorers.”

Spock caves eventually, but despite several days of searching they can’t find any path leading down.  Spock suggests the idea that they’d have to access it from somewhere else, maybe wherever the miners’ equipment was based.  Jim suggests they bring some rope and try to rappel down the side.  Spock lets him know unequivocally that this is not an option. 

As much as Jim wants to get to the bottom, he finds that he doesn’t really mind not being able to.  The fun of the search more than makes up for it.

The road they take to the quarry leads them through the Kirk farm’s fields.  Despite having no interest in farming Winona refuses to sell off the land, and her sister- and brother-in-law are too busy with their own farm to take over.  Instead the fields are rented out to a handful of different farmers who, as they get word of the Kirks’ unusual visitors, all find an excuse to turn up and get a look at Spock.

“A Vulcan, huh?”  Today’s visitor, Mr. Clark, is tall, heavy-set and soft-spoken.  He makes Jim think of an unusually friendly bear.  His eyes, set deep in his face behind bristling gray, are locked on Spock from where he stands at the bottom of the porch steps.  “Hell of a thing, those ears.  You got good hearing, boy?”

“My hearing is standard for a Vulcan,” Spock replies stiffly, and Jim jumps in.  Spock, he’s noticed by now, isn’t great at meeting new people.

“It’s awesome,” Jim interjects.  “We were just at the quarry, and he heard a rockslide start halfway to the bottom.  It was so cool.”  He shoots Spock an appreciative look; he never would have seen it if not for him.

Mr. Clark snorts out a laugh but keeps his attention on Spock.  “How long are you and your mama staying?”

“We will remain here for another seven weeks, four days, thirteen—”

“He gets the picture, Spock,” Jim interrupts with good-natured impatience, and Mr. Clark laughs again.

“Man, Mary—that’s my wife, y’know—Mary’d get a hell of a kick out of you.  Especially with this one turning up so often; gives her a proper appreciation for good manners.”  He reaches out and shoves lightly at the side of Jim’s head, earning a brief scuffle and a grin.

“You’re just mad she likes me better than you.”

“Like hell she does.  She only puts up with you because she feels bad for your mom, having to raise a little hellion like you.  Speaking of your mama, is she here?  I need to talk to her about the fence at the east edge.”

“She and Spock’s mom are in her lab,” Jim says, referring to the converted greenhouse at the back of the house.  “Just make sure you knock if the red light outside is on, ‘cause if you go right in she’ll get mad.”

Spock watches Mr. Clark clomp off around the house before he carefully begins refolding the bike to fit back into Jim’s backpack.  “Is such behavior customary among humans?” he asks after a moment, and Jim turns his attention from the scab forming over one of his knees.

“What behavior?”

“He implied that his wife was not pleased with your company.”

“He didn’t imply it, Spock, he said it.”  Jim thinks it’s kind of funny how concerned Spock seems to be; it sparks something warm in his chest and makes him smile.  “He’s just teasing.  We talked about teasing, remember?”

“Yes.”  Spock finishes with the bike and sits back on his heels.  Jim wonders how he’s managed to be out with him all day without gathering a single speck of dust on his clothes.  “I still do not entirely understand the concept,” Spock admits.

“It’s just something friends do.”  Jim shrugs.  He doesn’t know how else to explain it, doesn’t understand it well enough himself to put into words.  It’s simply something he knows; has always known it seems.

Spock is quiet for a moment, large brown eyes considering Jim in that way that always makes him unaccountably nervous.  When he does that it’s like Spock can see inside of him, see _through_ him, down to the central core of whatever Jim is.  It’s an uncomfortably heavy thought for a boy still shy of six.  Still, it never occurs to him to ask Spock to stop.  Finally the other boy lowers his eyes and begins to pull the zipper of Jim’s backpack closed.

“You have engaged in such behavior with me on multiple occasions.”

“Yeah,” Jim says, unsure where Spock’s going with this.

“We are . . . friends, James?”

“Well, yeah.  I mean.  Right?” 

Jim is suddenly uncertain.  Why does he want to be friends with a boy who makes him feel this way?  Unsure and clumsy and nervous and happy and content.  The combination is a hair shy of pleasant.  He doesn’t know why he wants it; doesn’t know that he _does_ want it.  But even at his age he knows that in this case, in this one case, it doesn’t matter.  What Spock feels doesn’t even really matter.  Jim is his friend, whether either of them like it or not.  What he wants is meaningless in the face of what is.

A frown forms a thin line between Spock’s tilted brows.  The show of emotion draws Jim like a magnet.

“What exactly,” he asks eventually, “is a friend?”

Jim is thrown, because how is he supposed to answer that?  What is he supposed to _think_ of it? The idea that Spock might be fooling with him is considered and immediately discarded.  The next option presents itself as a translation difficulty.

“I don’t know the Vulcan word for it.  Someone you like spending time with, and talk to if something’s wrong, and do fun things with.  Someone you have a connection with,” he says, remembering something that his mom said once.  He can see Spock considering for a moment.

“A connection, as with a brother?”

“Sometimes.”  Jim thinks of his own brother, who he rarely even sees anymore.  “A brother can be a friend, but he isn’t always.  Most friends are people you pick yourself, just because . . . well, just because you like them.”

“I see.”  Spock considers carefully for another moment.  Then, “I do not believe there is not a word in Vulcan for such a relationship, though we might ask my mother.  In any case, I do not know anyone who would fit such a description.” 

The possibility that Spock might not have _any_ friends hadn’t occurred to him.  After all, even living out in the middle of nowhere as he does Jim still has a handful of boys that he considers his friends.  Spock still doesn’t seem to understand, however, so Jim applies himself to the question with the full concentration he feels it deserves.

“A friend is . . . it’s someone you like, and you’re happy when they’re around.  It is a little bit like having a brother, but . . . not.”  His shoulders slump in defeat.  He quite simply doesn’t know how to explain it.  Spock’s eyes lift to his again, measuring.

“Then yes,” he says at last.  “I believe that we are friends.”

Jim beams.

It’s a serious responsibility, he quickly decides, being Spock’s first friend.  His only friend.  Because there’s a part of him, a part he won’t admit to even to himself, that’s afraid Spock will reconsider, will find the concept of friendship too Human for the Vulcan he’s trying to be.  So Jim starts his campaign to show him that having a friend is a good thing.

He remembers that Vulcans are sensitive about being touched.  It would be impossible for him not to; his mom has mentioned it to him about a million times.  But everything he’s been told is once again clashing against what he knows. 

Jim sees how starved Amanda seems for touch.  They all do, and accommodate her in it; his mom is rarely more than an arm’s length away from her, and Spock submits to her desire to press an occasional hand to his shoulder, the top of his head.  What Jim can’t understand is how no one else seems to see the same hunger in Spock.  Jim notices.  Each time his mother touches him he lingers a moment longer, leans a degree further into her.  And for a time afterwards his face is softer, his back less rigid.  He comes closer to smiling then than he ever does.  Eventually, though, the tension returns to his body and his face becomes a mask again, and after seeing him so nearly Human it is those times that he seems to Jim to be impossibly alien, remote and vaguely terrifying.

The equation that springs up in Jim’s mind is simple.  Spock is happy to receive physical contact.  Jim wants Spock to be happy.  Therefore, since everyone else seems reluctant to offer it to him, it is up to Jim to step up to the plate.

At first it seems to backfire.  Every casual touch makes Spock tense his shoulders and freeze like a rabbit in a sudden spotlight.  But he doesn’t pull away, so Jim keeps pressing.  And just like with his mother, each time Jim reaches out to him Spock relaxes a little sooner, and Jim lets his touch linger a little longer. 

Jim does the same thing with Spock that he does with anything important to him: he pushes, and presses, and refuses to give in until he’s reshaped things to his liking.  He pushes until Spock is easy with the touch of Jim’s hand on his back, with quick, friendly hugs and an impatient hand tugging him along.  He tries not to do it around their moms, mindful of the lecture he’ll almost certainly be in for if they catch wind of what he’s up to.  When they’re alone, though, it quickly becomes second nature to reach out and shake Spock’s arm to get his attention, to collapse against him in laughter when Spock says something he doesn’t realize is hilarious.  Still, he does his best to avoid skin-to-skin contact, mindful of touch telepathy and not so sure he likes the idea of Spock being able to read his mind so easily.

He starts to pry bits and pieces out of Spock.  The strange stringed instrument he finds beneath Spock’s bed—because it’s not Sam’s bed anymore at all, hasn’t been almost since the beginning—when he’s hunting for a shoe is called a _ka'athyra_ , a Vulcan lyre.  Spock has apparently been practicing while everyone else was asleep.  It hardly takes any work at all to convince him to take it out to the quarry with them and do his practicing there.  Jim ends up lying on his back on the blanket they brought with them, letting the sun bake his skin and watching a bird soaring above the chasm.  He feels like that himself, like the music is lifting him up, up and away from the earth.  If he closes his eyes he can imagine that he really isn’t on Earth at all, that the ground beneath him is dusty red and the sun that’s shining down is one light-years away.

“Do you ever get homesick?” he asks, and Spock’s song pauses.

“No.”

His immediate response isn’t unexpected.  “Yeah, but is there anything you miss?”  Still pressing, still pushing, burrowing his way into Spock’s world with single-minded determination.  “There’s gotta be something.  If you could have one thing from home here with you, what would it be?”

The pause is longer this time, and when Jim begins to think that Spock might not say anything at all, the answer comes.  “I-Chaya.”

“Bless you.”  He turns his head to look at Spock in the puzzled silence that follows, and he can feel himself start to blush.  “You didn’t just sneeze, did you?”

Spock’s eyebrows lift incrementally.  “No.”

“Oh.  Okay, so what’s an achooa?”

“I-Chaya,” Spock corrects carefully.  “He is my sehlat.  My . . .”  His attention flickers as he searches for the appropriate word in Standard.  “My pet,” he tries at last.

“You have a pet?  Really?”  Kirk scrambles up into a sitting position.  “What’s a sehlat?  It sounds like a big cat, is that what it is?”

“No.”  Spock purses his lips.  “I do not know how to explain.  It is . . . a sehlat.”

Seeing Spock at such a loss for words is more than worth the frustration of having no clue what his friend is talking about.  He glances around and is struck by sudden inspiration.

“Here.”  He takes the instrument from Spock with careful hands and nods to the dirt around them.  “Draw one.”

Spock seems skeptical, but he leans forward to a bare patch of ground.  With one finger outstretched he begins to draw a series of lines and arcs, the tip of his tongue caught between his teeth in concentration.  A shape gradually begins to form, and when Spock sits back at last it looks like nothing so much as a heavily muscled teddy bear with wicked-looking fangs.

“Wow.”  Kirk peers at the drawing.  “How big are they?”

“I-Chaya is approximately two point one five meters in length.”

Kirk whistles.  “Big.”  He does some quick mental calculations, glancing over at the small boy beside him.  “Is he big enough to ride?”

Spock considers.  “He likely is, though I have never tried.”

“Really?”  Jim can’t imagine having a pet that size and not immediately trying to climb on its back.  “Would he bite you?” he guesses.

“I do not believe so.”  Spock’s eyes follow Jim’s to the fangs etched in the dirt.  “But I think that I would rather not find out.”

Jim feels as though he’s been given something with that exchange, something rare and special.  He knows something more about Spock now: he has a pet, and he misses it, even if he won’t call it that.  It’s like being given a tiny piece of a puzzle he wants desperately to solve.  Jim has always loved puzzles.

He lies in bed that night, unable to sleep.  Spock hasn’t slept the past two nights, which should mean he’s due, but there’s a small light still on in the bed next to his.  A persistent feeling is niggling at the back of Jim’s mind, a need to offer something in return for what Spock’s given him.  He can’t think of anything that seems like enough, though, anything to match an admission—veiled though it may have been—of emotion from a Vulcan.  When the answer comes it strikes like lightning.

“Spock,” he whispers softly, wriggling onto his side to face the other bed.  “Are you asleep?”

“If I were, I would be unable to answer such a question,” comes the quiet response.  Jim smothers a giggle into his pillow.

“C’mon.”  He throws off the covers and steps carefully out of bed.

“Where are we going?”  The voice sounds hesitant, but Jim can see the shadows shift as Spock follows his lead.  He pauses only to pull a flashlight out of the drawer in the small table between their beds and leads the way to the door.

“Can’t sleep.  I wanna show you something.”

Months of experience allows Jim to pull the ladder to the attic down in near silence, standing on a chair in order to reach the string that dangles down from the ceiling.  He returns the chair to his room and leads the way up.  It’s dark up there, and darker still when he pulls up the ladder and closes the door behind them.  He switches the flashlight on and points the beam of light at Spock’s chest; the other boy’s nightclothes look almost exactly like what he always wears during the day, a stark contrast to Jim’s nearly-outgrown pajamas, his favorite blue pair with the small yellow stars all over.  In the wash of light his friend schools his face into a calm mask, but not quickly enough that Jim doesn’t see the nervousness there as he glances around in the dark.

“It’s all right,” he assures Spock quietly.  “I’ve been up here a hundred times; there’s just a load of old boxes and stuff.”  He pads over to one of the boxes and pulls out his father’s album.  “Check it out.”

When they find a bare patch of floor where they can both sit comfortably, Spock settles himself just a little closer than he might ordinarily.  Jim opens the album across their legs, shining the light over its pages.

“What are they?” Spock asks curiously, brushing one holochip lightly with his fingertips.  An image springs to life at his touch and he jerks his hand back in surprise.  He peers at the hologram as it swings its bat in a graceful arc again and again.  Numbers scroll beneath the figure, stats and averages appearing and reappearing.  Spock turns to him, inquisitiveness written plain across his face.

“Baseball holochips,” Jim explains.  That faint line reappears between Vulcan eyebrows.  “Do you know what baseball is?”

Spock doesn’t, so Jim does his best to explain.  The game itself earns a look of skeptical tolerance, but the idea of batting averages and standings garners a flicker of appreciation.  The math appeals to him if not the trappings, and he turns back to the chips with renewed interest.

“What is the purpose of the ‘chips?” he asks after examining several pages.  “It would be a more efficient use of space so simply record the relevant statistics in their pure form.”

“Well, yeah.  But it’s not so much about having the stats as just having the ‘chips.  It’s a collection; a hobby.  Like a game, where you try to collect as many different ones as you can.”  He feels suddenly foolish for thinking that Spock would understand what it all means.  It is, in the end, just a bunch of plastic and microchips, nothing special.  So he offers the only thing that makes this mean anything at all.  “They were my dad’s.”

Brown eyes lift to meet his gaze, and yes, he can see that Spock understands now.  “You do not speak of him,” he says quietly, and Jim shrugs like it’s not important.

“I didn’t know him, so there’s not much to talk about.  Sam’s name isn’t really Sam, you know,” he says, apropos of nothing.  “Well, it is.  It’s his middle name.  But his first name’s George, like Dad’s was.  I didn’t even know that until last year; we’ve always called him Sam.  I think probably it made my mom too sad, so she changed it.”

He feels raw and open.  He’s never said any of this out loud before, and he doesn’t like it.  When he doesn’t talk about it, it doesn’t have to be real; doesn’t have to hurt.  But here, in this dark attic with his new Vulcan friend, it is.  Spock watches him for a moment before his chin tilts up defiantly.

“ _Kaiidth_ ,” he says firmly.  Jim has no idea what it means, but it eases him somehow.

“ _Kaiidth_ ,” he echoes.  He doesn’t ask what it means; just the sound of it is enough.  He turns back to the album.  “I haven’t told anyone else about these,” he admits.  “I don’t think Sam even knows they exist.”

Silence for a moment, then, “I will not tell anyone.”

Spock’s face is serious, and the last traces of Jim’s regret slip away.  He smiles back at him.  A moment later he feels a tentative touch against his hand, and looks down to see Spock carefully hooking his pinky finger around Jim’s.  Jim firms the link gratefully.  He feels calmer by the time Spock draws his hand back, and glad to have brought Spock up there.

They spend longer than they should poring over the ‘chips and cards in the album.  By the time they sneak back downstairs they’re both exhausted, and when their mothers come in the next morning they’re both of them in the bed closest to the door, sleeping curled up facing each other with their hair tangled together on the pillow.


	4. Daffodil Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Because the kid who’s coming is _Vulcan_ , for heaven’s sake. There’s nothing fun about Vulcans. They’re logical and boring and, if Jim’s being completely honest, just the tiniest bit scary. And this is the boy who will be in his house, sharing his room, sleeping in his brother’s bed. How is he even supposed to start trying to make friends with someone so . . . well, alien?_

**Author's Note:** THE PART THAT WOULDN'T END.  Seriously, this feels like it took forever to get out, partially because it _just kept going_.  I couldn't stop it.  (It probably didn't help that I kept getting distracted writing stuff from the end of the story.  Ah, well.)  In any case, I refused to go to bed before actually finishing this, so apologies for any incoherence.

The beginning of this is a shameless use of [another drawing](http://anubis-admirer.deviantart.com/art/Tub-Time-150824348) by [](http://momo-girlie.livejournal.com/profile)[**momo_girlie**](http://momo-girlie.livejournal.com/)  .  And I just want to say that if you can look at that and not go all melty over Spock's widdle green elbow, YOU ARE DEAD INSIDE.  DEAD, YOU HEAR ME?  OMG I can't stop looking at it. X3

Another part where nothing really happens.  I'd promise that we'd get to some sort of action soon, but to be completely honest I suspect that would be a lie.  In fact, for all that this is going to end with the events of XI, there isn't really a lot of action to be had.  Mostly slow-build character stuff.  Just, um, heads-up.

 

 

[Part 1](http://ladyblahblah.livejournal.com/6283.html#cutid1)│[Part 2](http://ladyblahblah.livejournal.com/6944.html#cutid1)│[Part 3](http://ladyblahblah.livejournal.com/8965.html#cutid1)

 

 

 

“Come _on_ , Mom!” James whines.  Spock carefully spears a piece of broccoli—which he quite likes, despite his initial reluctance to try Earth food—and watches quietly from under his eyelashes.  The argument has been going on for eight point three four minutes, and he suspects that Mrs. Kirk’s patience is nearing its end.

“Jimmy, this is not up for discussion,” she says firmly.  It seems an odd statement; she _has_ been discussing it, despite her repeated assertions that she will not.  “We’re going to be at the base until 2200 tomorrow, and we are _not_ leaving the two of you here alone.  End of story.”

“But we’re alone almost every day.”  James’s own food has gone untouched since the argument began.  Spock wonders if he will be eating his broccoli; he usually doesn’t, and generally seems happy enough to share.  “We ride our bikes out all the time!  We’re alone then.”

“And we’re here at the house in case anything happens,” his mother counters.

“What about Aunt Leah and Uncle Ed?  They’ll be home, and Sam’ll be there, too.”

“Their cows broke through the fence at the north end of the pasture.  They have enough to do rebuilding it without looking after you in the process.”

“The boys could come with us,” Spock’s mother suggests.  “There must be facilities available there.”

James groans dramatically and throws his head back so violently that Spock thinks for a moment that he will topple from his seat.  “Not the base,” he complains.  “They never let you look at any of the cool stuff, they just stick you in daycare with a bunch of little baby toys.”

“Well, Jim, I don’t know what to tell you.  Either you come with us or you stay here with a babysitter.  Those are your options, so you’d better pick one.”

“Spock doesn’t think we need a babysitter, either,” James mutters.  To Spock’s relief he doesn’t seem to be looking for confirmation of that statement.  James is his friend, and according to Spock’s understanding this means that he is meant to support him in disagreements of this sort.  It will be, however, the first time since their arrival on this planet that he will be apart from his mother for a significant span of time.  He thinks, under the circumstances, that he would rather have a babysitter than not.

“I don’t know why you’re making such a fuss,” Mrs. Kirk is saying as James sullenly pushes a piece of chicken around his plate.  “I thought you _liked_ Leo.”

James’s head snaps up at that, startling Spock again.  “You got Bones?” he asks eagerly.  Spock is not the only one at the table confused.

“Bones?” Spock’s mother asks with a raised eyebrow.  Mrs. Kirk rolls her eyes in a signal of annoyance or exasperation, an expression that is at odds with the quirk of her mouth.  Fascinating.

“Jimmy’s nickname for the McCoy boy, Leonard.”

“He’s skinny,” James argues, and leans forward.  “Mom,” he presses, “Bones is gonna be our babysitter?”

Mrs. Kirk sends an arch look in her son’s direction.  “I though you didn’t want a babysitter.”

“I didn’t know it was gonna be Bones!  I thought he was visiting his grandparents in Mississippi.”

“Georgia,” his mother corrects.  “And he got back a few days ago.  But if you don’t want him to come over—”

“No!  He can come, it’s okay.” 

James finally takes another bite of his food, too large for him to easily chew.  His mother begins to scold him to take smaller bites, and the rest of the meal passes in what seems to be relative peace for the Kirk household.  This lasts exactly as long as it takes Mrs. Kirk to remember that tonight is her son’s bath night.

One of the—admittedly many—things that continues to baffle Spock about James is his preference for baths.  ‘Preference’ is, of course, a relative term only, as left to his own devices James will avoid bathing altogether.  He can, however, usually be coaxed or prodded or threatened into the bathtub.  Eventually.  Showers, meanwhile, are apparently completely out of the question.

James’s latest attempt to forestall the inevitable is to refuse to enter the bathtub unless Spock goes with him.  This is actually one of his more ingenious methods, as Spock has tried several times to convince James of the inherent illogic of a bath over a shower.  His friend, it seems, is beginning to employ an impressive amount of strategy in his endeavors.  The battle rages on upstairs, and even Spock’s perpetually tranquil mother is beginning to look harried.

“I know it’s not particularly . . . logical,” she says to Spock.  “But please, at least consider it.  The sooner he gets in the tub the sooner we can have something resembling peace and quiet.”

Spock is surprised at his mother’s request, but he does as she asks and considers the idea for a moment.  He does not see the appeal of sitting in a tub full of water.  Nor does he understand how it could possibly get one sufficiently clean.  It seems to him that a shower would be necessary after the fact in any case, so it is only logical to skip the bathtub stage completely.  However, he thinks as a loud crash sounds above their heads, there is something to be said for the promise of peace.  And James is starting to smell a bit.

James’s face is red with anger, and he appears to be in the midst of sucking in a breath for what will doubtless be an impressive scream, when Spock appears in the bathroom doorway.  Sudden surprise deflates his temper at once, and he is left blinking in astonishment.

“The water will have to be sufficiently warm,” Spock says firmly, and James breaks into a grin.

They disrobe as Mrs. Kirk runs the water.  Spock folds his clothes carefully, setting them aside on the edge of the sink where they will remain dry and then doing the same for those that James has shucked off and scattered across the floor.  James hauls a large blue bucket out of the closet; it is filled with an assortment of plastic toys, and Spock is baffled as he watches James carefully set several along the rim of the bathtub before upending the bucket and dumping the remainder into the rising water.  When the water has reached a sufficient level Mrs. Kirk cuts off the flow and helps both boys clamber in.

“No roughhousing,” she says in a warning tone.  “I’ll be back in ten minutes, and I expect both of you to have finished scrubbing up.”

The water is warm enough to turn James’s skin a bright pink, which to Spock feels pleasantly but not overly warm.  Mindful of their warning, Spock reaches immediately for the shampoo.  It takes him a moment to ascertain how to proceed, but soon realizes that the bathtub is large enough for him to completely submerge himself, head and all.  He finishes washing his hair and takes up a bar of soap.  He has to pay special attention to the tips his ears, he knows, where dirt tends to accumulate quickly.  James, meanwhile, has yet to make a move in the direction of soap of any kind.  Instead he has a small plastic boat in his hands and is skimming it across the surface of the water.

“Well?” he says, when he catches Spock’s eye.  “Not so bad, right?”

“A shower is still far more efficient,” Spock says.

“Yeah, but I always get shampoo in my eyes when I try to rinse,” James responds.  “Besides, you don’t get toys in the shower.

Spock concedes that this is a fair point.

The model starship floats, he discovers, but is unfortunately top-heavy and has a tendency to tip over.  He must keep one hand on a nacelle as he navigates it through the water.  James, meanwhile, has abandoned his boat for what appears to be some sort of oddly shaped sea creature and is plunging it in and out of the water in great, graceful dives.  Spock steers the ship over to nudge the saucer section against its tail.

“What is that?”

“A whale.  It used to be Sam’s; he ordered an information download about extinct species, and they sent him this for free.  He’s really into science,” he explains, and sends the whale in for another dive.

“James,” Spock says, something recalled to his mind.  “What is ‘horseplay’?”

The smile that spreads slowly over James’s face makes Spock distinctly nervous.

“Something like this,” the Human boy says, and then his hand moves in a quick sweeping motion, and a wave of water flies up to splash Spock’s face.

He sits there, blinking water out of his eyes while James laughs uproariously.  Spock is still trying to determine whether or not he is insulted when another wave hits him.  Some instinct, passed down from a Human mother or else universal to children everywhere, seizes him.  The next wave rises at his hand; a moment later James’s hair is plastered to his head and he is spluttering, trying to spit out the water that has landed in his open mouth.  He scrubs at his face and the light of battle fills his eyes.

Their mothers are not pleased when they hurry in, alerted by the sound of splashing and James’s delighted laughter.  The floor is covered with a thin sheen of water that they, they are assured in no uncertain terms, will be mopping up.  Spock’s mother plucks him out of the tub and wraps him in a thick towel to dry him off.  Meanwhile Mrs. Kirk sets in on her son with shampoo and soap, off on another harangue that includes phrases like “should’ve known better” and “bad influence” while James squirms and struggles.

They are settled into bed—that is to say, James is as settled as he ever is, and Spock is seated with one of his school PADDs—when James turns a slow, sleepy grin in his direction.

“Tomorrow’s gonna be awesome.  Bones is great; he lets me do whatever I want as long as I don’t break stuff or get hurt or set anything on fire again.”

Spock blinks, absorbing this new information.  “You have previously set something on fire?”

“I found an old stash of fireworks up in the attic, and there was this tree out back, and I kinda of accidentally shot one of the rockets at it.  I’m sort of surprised Mom lets Bones sit for me at all anymore.  Anyway, he made me promise I wouldn’t set anything else on fire, even accidentally.”

“I see.”  Spock considers the equations on the screen before him for a moment.  “What _will_ we be doing tomorrow, James?”

“Dunno.”  James yawns hugely and burrows deeper into his pillow.  “’S gonna be great, though.”

Spock is not nervous.  He has not been nervous since he was very young; in the intervening years he has learned to control such emotional reactions with far greater ease.  However, he is . . . cautious.  Yes, he is _cautious_ about meeting Leonard McCoy, who James calls “Bones”.  He is not entirely sure, based on what James has told him, that this boy will make a suitable guardian, and resolves to keep a careful eye on him.

The next morning Spock dresses with deliberate care.  He has only one opportunity to make a first impression, a lesson that his father taught him at an early age.  Though he is not altogether sure that he _wants_ to make a favorable impression, a fact that he puzzles over as he slips his best robe over his head.  He decides, however, that it is better in any case to make the attempt.  James, after all, is apparently fond of this boy, and so Spock will attempt to make the appropriate social overtures.

Downstairs, things are in a state of mild chaos.  Both women are rushing about, gathering papers and occasionally cursing when they trip over one of James’s toys left scattered across the floor.  James himself is seated at the kitchen table with a large bowl of the cereal he prefers, the one that turns the milk the same vivid purple as _plomeek_ soup.  He is uncharacteristically quiet, engrossed in the daily comics transition that is streaming in on his PADD.

Spock moves quietly, keeping to the edges of the room to avoid getting in the way.  He pulls a small stool over to the replicator, climbing onto the first in order to reach the second.  Moments later he carries his bowl of fruit over to the table and seats himself next to his friend. 

Spock’s attention as he eats is absorbed by the sweet tang of the Earth fruit he has come to enjoy.  He will regret its loss when he returns to Vuclan, he thinks, with the exception of the honeydew that they can not program the replicator to stop producing, no matter how often they try.  The other replicated fruit is quite close to the actual fresh produce he has been able to sample on their trip, but for some inexplicable reason the honeydew always comes out tasting watery and slightly sour.  Against all odds, James is the only one in the house who cares for it.  Spock finishes eating and pushes the bowl in James’s direction; the other boy does not even look up from his PADD, simply reaches out and plucks a piece of melon from the bowl.

“Where did I leave my presentation?” 

Spock’s mother sounds nearly frantic as she rushes by, strands of dark hair escaping from the neat bun at the nape of her neck.  Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes bright in her distress.  She looks, in that moment, so strikingly Human that Spock’s breath catches.  This, he realizes with a nearly blinding sense of surprise, is a part of his heritage.  This bright, frenzied flash, somehow more alive than any Vulcan that Spock had ever seen, is a part of him.  This potential is wired into his genes, something that he finds both disturbing and oddly . . . compelling.

It is the realization of a moment, there and then gone, the knowledge retreating to lurk in the back of his mind without troubling his conscious thoughts.  He raises an eyebrow at the way James is sucking the juice from the honeydew from his fingers with his eyes still riveted to the transmission in front of him, and pulls out his own PADD to occupy himself.

“I have it!” Mrs. Kirk’s voice calls out from the next room, and she hurries in clutching a PADD.  In her Starfleet uniform, with her hair pulled back from her face, she looks like a different person.  “I must have grabbed it instead of mine.”

“Oh, thank heavens.”  Spock’s mother visibly relaxes.  “I’m nervous enough about this lecture without . . . wait, where’s _your_ PADD, then?”

They are still searching when the door chimes, and James is leaping from his seat before anyone else can so much as react.  “I’ll get it!” his voice rings out, and Spock immediately follows him.  James has the front door open before Spock can even make it to the hallway, already calling out a delighted, “Bones!”

“Did you check the monitor?”  Spock slips silently out of the kitchen in time to see the monitor hanging blankly by the door and a hand lightly cuffing the back of James’s head.  “Always check the monitor, munchkin.  Why do we always have to go over this every time I come over?”

“Guess my memory’s not every good.”  His back is to Spock, but the smirk is audible in James’s voice.

Spock takes this opportunity to survey the new arrival.  James’s nickname for the older boy is, while perhaps not particularly diplomatic, is apt.  At several years older than either of them, Leonard McCoy looks to be little more than skin stretched over bones, his body all straight lines and hard angles.  Eyeing the sharp just of his elbows, Spock makes a mental note not to stand too close to him.

“So where’s the Vulcan?”  He looks around, and when he catches sight of Spock his cheeks color.  “Oh.  Hey.  You’re Spock, right?”

Spock inclines his head in agreement.

“What’s the matter?”  The boy smiles.  It is both like and unlike James’s smile; Spock is uncertain whether he cares for it or not.  His eyes, despite the smile, are shrewd and changeable.  “Cat got your tongue?”

Blinking in confusion—surely a feline taking possession of his tongue would be easily observed and, he would hope, speedily dispatched—he is grateful when James steps in.  “He’s shy around strangers,” he explains.  Spock is tempted to argue the point, but discovers that he would prefer to stay silent.

“I didn’t think you even knew what ‘shy’ meant, Jimmy.” 

“Sure I do.  Same as you know what ‘handsome’ means.”

Teasing again, Spock thinks.  An illogical human custom, but one they seem to enjoy.  Fascinating.

“Quiet, brat, or I’ll make you go to the base with your mom after all.”

“Leo!”  Mrs. Kirk appears at last, beaming a smile at him.  “You’re right on time.  How was your trip?”

“Very good, ma’am, thank you.  Grams sent me back with a crate full of peaches; I’ve already eaten half of them, but I can bring some by if you’d like.”

“Thank you, Leo, that’s very sweet of you.  Our guests are both vegetarians, and Spock here especially has a fondness for fresh fruit.”

“Yeah?”  He turns his attention back to Spock, something like approval in his eyes before he grins at James again.  “Shy _and_ he can recognize the benefits of healthy food without them jumping up to bite him in the leg.  He’s the anti-Jim.”

Mrs. Kirk gives an indelicate snort.  “He is, a bit.  All right now, you have the information on how to reach us?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“And you have a list of Jimmy’s allergies.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”  There is unmistakable amusement in his voice at that.  “Wouldn’t want anything else like the pistachio incident, would we?”

“That wasn’t funny,” James protests, his face working itself into a scowl.  “I couldn’t feel my tongue for a week.”

“I know.  It’s the only time since I’ve known you that you’ve ever been quiet.”

“You’d get bored without me and you know it,” James pronounces confidently.  His friend snorts and rolls his eyes but does not, Spock notices, deny it.

“Winona!  I found your report.”  Spock’s mother comes hurrying into the hall, running a hand over Spock’s hair as she passes him.  She smiles at the new boy, whose skin flushes red in response.  “You must be Leo.  I really can’t thank you enough for watching the boys on such short notice.  This presentation to the Academy representatives was completely last-minute.”

“It’s my pleasure, Ma’am,” he says quickly.  Spock is reasonably sure that his accent was not quite so thick a moment ago, but can not account for the change.  “Leonard McCoy,” he adds, stepping forward with his hand outstretched, and Spock’s mother takes it in hers for a brief moment. 

Spock bristles at the intimacy of the greeting, but when no one else seems at all perturbed he decides that this is just another example of inexplicable human custom.  He does not, however, believe that he cares for this one.  At least not when it involves his mother.

“We’ll try to be back by 2200; if it looks like we’ll be later than that we’ll call.”  Mrs. Kirk slips her bag onto her shoulder.  “There’s are credits on the kitchen table; I thought the three of you might like to catch a movie.  You have everything, Amanda?  All right, let’s go!  Bye, boys.  Be good.”  She presses a quick kiss to the top of James’s head and Spock’s mother strokes his hair again, and then they are all but flying through the still-open door.

“Let’s go, Bones,” James is saying, tugging at the older boy’s arm as the aircar speeds away.

“Woah, woah.  Go where?”

“Town.  You’ve got your speeder and Mom left credits for a movie, so it’s okay.  Come on!”

“You want to go see a movie?”  Leonard sounds hopeful, if not entirely convinced.

“I wanna go to the comic shop; there’s a new Superman out.  It’ll be fun, right, Spock?”

Surprised and unsettled to be put so suddenly on the spot, Spock can not answer at first.  But the encouraging look on James’s face spurs him at last into speech.  He straightens his spine and meets the older boy’s eyes.  “I would very much like to see the local commercial center, Leonard,” he says calmly.  “I have not yet had a chance.”

His formality seems to reassure Leonard somehow.  “I guess . . . oh, fine, fine, we’ll go.”  He jabs a finger at James.  “But no running off this time, got it?”

“I’ll get the credits!” James says happily, and dashes for the kitchen.  Leonard turns back to Spock.

“Call me Leo,” he offers, and Spock tilts his head in mild inquiry.

“Why?”

James is still laughing by the time they climb into the speeder.

The city is not, to Spock’s mind, a large one.  Rather, it is the rambling sprawl of a place that has experienced a great amount of growth in a short amount of time; the design is not coherent, though similar establishments seem to struggle towards each other in a futile attempt at convergence.  James seems well-pleased with the activity of the place, however.  Spock wonders what he would think of ShirKahr, of the towering spires of the Science Academy and the energy of the city of his birth.

They use a portion of Mrs. Kirk’s credits to procure storage for Leonard’s speeder and make their way to the shop.  It is unexpectedly large inside and, Spock notes, offers more beyond the comic books that James immediately points out.  There is a large, cluttered section of books printed on genuine replicated paper, and an equally unorganized display of musical data chips.  A small café is situated near the back and fills the space with unfamiliar, intriguing scents.

“All right, rugrats, you go hog wild. ” Leonard says, eyeing the pretty girl who stands behind the café counter, looking bored.  “I’ve got a date with that doll over there.”

“Is he still speaking Standard?” Spock asks quietly, and James snickers.

“Sort of.  Bones Standard.  He’s always worse when he’s been visiting his family.  C’mon, I’m gonna get my comic.”

They make their way over to the metal rack where the few paper comics are displayed, and James spots the one he wants immediately.  As they move to the register to pay, Spock studies the front cover.  On the rocky surface of an alien planet, Superman is facing off against a host of Klingon warriors.

“Why does he not simply destroy the Klingons when they attack?” he asks.  “His power far exceeds theirs.”

James pauses in the act of digging into his pocket for the credits he brought for the occasion.  His brow furrows as though the question has never occurred to him, and he gazes for a moment at the picture. Spock watches his eyes trace the symbol on the burly man’s chest and waits for an answer.  At last, James shrugs.

“Because he’s the good guy,” he says as though that is enough.  And somehow it is.

When he has paid they move away, James’s eyes locked on the comic he now has open in front of him with Spock occasionally peering over his shoulder.  At the back of the shop Leonard has managed to secure the girl’s attention, and her initial look of disdain is gradually switching over to one of reluctant interest.  Spock waits until James has reached the pages of advertisements that split the booklet before speaking again.

“It is not the date of your mother’s birth, or any significant Terran holiday.”

James looks up in confusion.  “Um . . . no?”

“I had understood that those were traditional opportunities for gift-giving among Humans.”

“Gift . . . oh, the peaches,” James realizes, and shrugs.  “Yeah, that’s true.  But it’s not like you have to wait for a birthday or Christmas to give a gift.  You can do that anytime, if you want to.”

“I see.”

James waits for Spock to continue, and when he does not, he returns to his comic.  He does not notice when Spock leaves, and he is still reading by the time he returns.  Spock waits patiently for him to finish, and when the pages close at last he holds out his hand to present the small foil-wrapped pouch that he has purchased, heavy despite its size.

“What’s that?” James asks curiously.  Spock continues to hold it out until the other boy finally takes it.  His eyebrows lift when he reads the writing on the pouch.

“I wished to give you a gift.”  Jim simply stares at the item in his hand, making no move to open it.  Spock goes very still in order to quell the urge to squirm.  “Is this not an appropriate gesture?”

“No, it’s . . .” James looks up at last, looking stunned.  “What for?”

Spock straightens his spine.  “I was under the impression that one did not need a specific reason to give a gift to a friend.  Was I mistaken?”

“No, you weren’t.”  The younger boy looks lost for words for a moment, and when he smiles it’s slower than his usual, deeper somehow.  “Thanks,” he says simply, before he tears into the package.

The hologram on the first chip springs to life.  An invisible pitch is thrown again and again, the figure executing an unsteady hop at the end of each loop as the force of the throw nearly overbalances him.

“I thought that you might begin your own collection,” Spock explains.

“Yeah,” James says softly, that smile still on his face.  He looks up, first at Spock and then over to where Leonard now has the girl at the café laughing.  He tucks the chips into his pocket and grabs Spock’s hand, oblivious to the flush of a young Vulcan boy still unaccustomed to such attentions.  “Come on.”

“Where are we going?” Spock asks as James tows him along, surprised when he is pulled through the front door and into the street.  “I do not believe that we are supposed to leave without Leonard.”

“It’s cool, we’ll be back before he even knows we’re gone.”  An airbus is idling at the corner, and James hauls them onto it only moments before it begins to move.  “How’d you buy those, anyway?  I didn’t know you had any money.”

“My father gave me a supply before my mother and I left.  This was the first opportunity that I have had to spend it.”

They are not on the airbus for long; there is, after all, not much distance between one end of town and the other, and though—to Spock’s surprise—they exit the city limits entirely it is still only seven point two minutes until they slow to a stop.  James hops out and Spock follows, and they find themselves facing the large gates that mark the entrance to the Riverside Shipyard.

“We can’t get in,” James says, “but we can see all the really good stuff from here, anyway.”  Spock wonders how many times James has come here before, remembering Leonard’s warning to him not to wander off.

They walk along the fence line, eyes locked on the towering buildings and machinery inside.  “It is impressive,” Spock says quietly, though what he truly means is something far beyond.  The metal skeleton of a starship rises in the vast span of field that the shipyard encompasses, and the sheer size of it astounds him.

“They built this place here because of my dad,” James says.  Spock measures his voice for traces of sadness, but the awesome power of this place seems to have driven out all other emotional reaction.  “Mom says they didn’t finish construction on the yard until three years ago.  That’s a Constitution-class starship in there.  It’ll take years and years and years to finish, but when they do it’s gonna be the best ship in the whole ‘Fleet.”  There is a light shining in his eyes when he turns to Spock that makes something inside of him shiver.  “And I’m gonna fly in her.”

Spock ignores the feminine pronoun in favor of the more interesting revelation.  “You are going to enlist in Starfleet?”

“Yup.”  James turns back to the ship rising into the bright blue sky.  “I’m gonna go up in space and discover all kinds of stuff, and talk to aliens and see other planets.”  He glances quickly over to Spock, then back ahead.  “You should come, too.  It’ll be more fun if you’re there.  We can go around the universe and see all sorts of cool things and name all the best stuff after us.”

Spock considers for a moment, examines the idea of traveling the vast expanse of space with his friend.  Then he nods.

“That would be agreeable.”

“Cool.”  James kicks at a rock that lies in his path.  “Hey, Spock?”

“Yes?”

There is a pause that lasts long enough for Spock to wonder if perhaps James had not intended to say anything beyond his name.  Then, “You won’t forget about me when you go back to Vulcan, will you?”

Spock raises an eyebrow.  “I could not.”  The very idea is ridiculous, which does not explain the clear relief in James’s answering smile.

“Good.”

Whey they go back it turns out that Leonard _had_ noticed that they were gone, and Spock is fascinated to note that his accent grows thicker still when he is angry.  Against all of James’s protests they go back to the Kirk farm immediately, and Leonard refuses to let them out of his sight for the rest of the day.

James is already asleep when their mothers return.  Even from the bedroom Spock can pick out Leonard’s voice downstairs saying goodnight.  He tells them that the three of them went to town but does not relate James and Spock’s transgression; Spock files that fact away to examine later. 

He is uncertain why he chooses to feign sleep when the bedroom door opens, but he feels his PADD being drawn gently from his grasp and a cool kiss pressed softly to his head.  The light is switched off, and the door closes, and he opens his eyes again.

One hand reaches out to brush against the ‘chip that lies on the nightstand, and Spock lies in the darkness with his friend’s deep breaths filling his ears, watching the holographic figure throw his pitch and almost, but not quite fall.

 


	5. Daffodil Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Because the kid who’s coming is _Vulcan_ , for heaven’s sake. There’s nothing fun about Vulcans. They’re logical and boring and, if Jim’s being completely honest, just the tiniest bit scary. And this is the boy who will be in his house, sharing his room, sleeping in his brother’s bed. How is he even supposed to start trying to make friends with someone so . . . well, alien?_

**Author's Note:** Sorry for the delay, but this part sort of kicked my ass.  No particular reason for it, other than that nothing really happens until the end. *rolls eyes*  (Possibly also because my muse keeps wanting them to make out and I have to keep reminding her that they're 6 and 7 years old and she just needs to hold her darn horses.)  There is passing mention here of [this drawing](http://anubis-admirer.deviantart.com/art/I-Chaya-Grown-151796371) because it was just.  Too.  Cute.  I want sehlat snuggles now.

 

 

[Part 1](http://ladyblahblah.livejournal.com/6283.html#cutid1)│[Part 2](http://ladyblahblah.livejournal.com/6944.html#cutid1)│[Part 3](http://ladyblahblah.livejournal.com/8965.html#cutid1)│[Part 4](http://ladyblahblah.livejournal.com/13333.html#cutid1)

 

 

Jim can’t stop fidgeting.

That is, in and of itself, nothing new; he’s hardly ever still for more than a minute at a time.  This is a bit much, though, even for him, and the teacher is starting to give him dirty looks.  Which isn’t fair, really, because it’s not his fault.  How is he supposed to concentrate on arithmetic—and really, _arithmetic_?  He learned sums and multiplication and division when he was three.  This is _boring_.—on the last day of school?

He’s already completed his worksheets, which he figures is the only reason Mr. Thompson is still leaving him alone. The two of them haven’t gotten along all year, and Jim is incredibly glad that he’ll be moving on to a new classroom for second grade next year.

Finally, after what Jim is ready to swear was _years_ , the final bell rings.  Everyone jumps up out of their seats, but Mr. Thompson makes them all sit back down and be quiet until he dismisses them, because he’s _like_ that.  When he decides he’s finally tortured them enough, he waves his hand and the room erupts into chaos.  Kids call back and forth to each other, gathering up all the stuff they’ve accumulated over course of the year.  Johnny comes up to Jim, his arms full of books and pens tucked behind both ears.

“Jimmy, a bunch of us are gonna go swimming tomorrow, you wanna come?”

“Can’t.”  He tugs his backpack out from under his desk, taking out his bike and replacing it with the contents of his desk.  He doesn’t carry Mr. Whiskers with him when he goes to school, something that made him nervous at first but now seems perfectly normal.  “I’ve gotta be at home.”

“How come?”  Brian has come up as well, backpack already slung over his shoulders.  “Your stepdad’s leaving in the morning, right?  You can come after that.”

“No, I can’t.”  Jim grins.  “My best friend’s coming tomorrow, and I’ve gotta be home when he gets there.”

“Your best friend?”  Johnny frowns in confusion.  “Does he go here?”

“Nope.  He lives on Vulcan.  He and his mom are visiting for the summer again.”

Brian laughs.  “You can’t have a best friend who lives on a whole other _planet_.  That’s dumb.”

“ _You’re_ dumb,” Jim shoots back with a glower.  “Just ‘cause you can’t figure out how to make subspace transmissions doesn’t mean no one else can.”

“What do you want to be friends with a Vulcan for, anyway?”  All three boys turn towards the new voice.  Two desks away, Katie Evans tosses her thick blonde braid over one shoulder and wrinkles her nose in Jim’s direction.  “They’re so _boring_.”

“How would you know?” Brian demands, his conflict with Jim already forgotten in the face of new opposition.  “You’ve never met one.  You’ve never even been out of the state.”

“Oh, like you have,” she sniffs.  “Besides, I don’t need to meet one to know about them; I’ve seen them in the First Contact vids and on the news.  They’re like robots.”

“No they’re not.”  Jim is openly scowling now.  “Spock isn’t boring, he’s _cool_.  And he’s way more fun to talk to than _some people_.”  He turns back to his friends.  “I’m going home.  I’ll see you guys later.”

Behind him, he can hear Brian and Katie begin to bicker again, but he doesn’t turn around.  All he wants is to get home where he can pretend that none of that ever happened.

He unfolds his bike and sets off down the road as fast as his legs can carry him.  As he pedals he tries to push Katie’s words out of his mind, because they’re not important and she’s stupid, anyway.  Just because she’s the prettiest girl in school she thinks that she can just say whatever she wants.

Except that she’s hardly the first person to make a snide remark about Spock, is she?  And Jim can’t go fast enough to outrace all of the voices he’s heard over the past year.

_“Vulcan, huh?  Careful he doesn’t try dissecting you in your sleep.”_

_“He’s just creepy.  The way he stares at you without any expression, like there isn’t anybody in there.”_

_“Little too close to Romulans, if you ask me.  Same ears, same eyebrows.  Didn’t Vulcans used to be Romulans, or something?  Blood will tell, won’t it?  At least with Romulans you know where you stand; they don’t try to hide everything like Vulcans do.  With Vulcans, they could be planning to murder us all and you’d never know.”_

_“Don’t hold with that inter-species mingling.  What would a nice Human girl want to go and marry an alien for?  I tell you, that kid shouldn’t even exist.”_

Mostly people don’t know he’s around when they say stuff like that.  But he’s heard enough to know that Katie’s opinion is far from unusual, and that makes him even madder.  And something else, something that he can’t quite place, but finally recognizes as shame.  Shame that he’s a member of a species that can be so horrible to someone for no other reason than . . . what?  He doesn’t know; he doesn’t understand.  Vulcans are a part of the Federation.  They’re peaceful.  And anyone who spent time with Spock would be able to tell that really, they’re not so different than Humans.

Jim pedals faster.

He’s sweaty and out of breath by the time he gets home, and he wants a glass of water more than anything, but he takes the time to check over his bike before he folds it up.  If there’s one thing that that his mom has taught him, it’s that you have to take care of your ride.  His aunt and uncle’s aircar is always breaking down, and his mom keeps telling them that they needs to take it in for regular maintenance.  It’s one of those things that always gets forgotten, though, until the next time something breaks.  Now that Frank has been teaching Sam and Jim how to work on engines when he’s home, Jim thinks that maybe between the two of them they’ll be able to look after it soon.

He clatters up the porch steps and is shocked to see Sam’s suitcases standing by the door next to all of Frank’s.  He’s gotten so used to having his brother at home that it hadn’t occurred to him that he’d be leaving.  It makes sense, he knows; between their houseguests and the extra work he’ll be doing on the neighboring farm it’s logical—Jim smiles to himself at the thought—that Sam stay with their aunt and uncle.  Still, there seems to be an awful lot of luggage there for someone who’s just going down the road.

Their mom got in from her latest rotation the day before; Jim can hear her and Frank talking in the kitchen, hear the high ring of her laughter.  He ignores them for now and heads upstairs, as quietly as he can, to the room he shares with his brother.

He’s surprised, and somehow not surprised at all, to find Sam packing the last of his books away.  Sam has never had much stuff, but what he does have is all gone now, leaving his side of the room shockingly bare.  He looks up when Jim enters and smiles nervously.

“Hey, Jimmy.”

“Hi.”  Jim sets his bag by the door and looks around.  “What’s going on?”

“Well.”  Sam tucks the last book into the box and closes it up.  “Remember how I applied for that program a few months ago?”

Jim thinks about it, shakes his head.  “No.”

“Oh.  Well, you must’ve forgotten, because I know I told you about it.” 

It’s a lie, and they both know it.  Jim doesn’t forget much, and there’s no chance he would have forgotten anything that might result in his brother packing away everything he owns.  But they both let the lie be, let it hang there like truth between them.

“It’s the IEP—Interplanetary Expansion Program.  You do rotations, a year apiece in four different colonies, and you get to help with settlement and terraforming and crop production and everything.”  He laughs sheepishly and, out of things to occupy his hands and no more comfortable with stillness than Jim is, moves to remake the bed.  “I never thought I’d actually get in.  They only take a handful of people every year, and that’s from all over the world.  But . . . I did.  Mom about busted something she flipped so hard.”  He rolls his eyes, but it’s obvious he’s pleased.  “And it’s a great opportunity.  Universities eat this stuff up, you know.”

Jim nods vaguely, but all he can think is, _four years_.  Four years of hopping from colony to colony, living on planet after planet that wasn’t Earth.  Wasn’t where Jim was.  And after that, university.  Maybe on yet another planet, maybe on this one, but certainly not in Riverside, Iowa.  And Jim has to fight against the tears that want to come, because his brother is leaving him and might not ever come back, and hadn’t even thought to tell him.

“It’s a really amazing program,” Sam is saying, still fussing with covers that are already perfectly neat.  “You should apply when you’re old enough, Jimmy, they’d fall all over themselves to get someone as smart as you are.”  He straightens, unable to pretend interest in the blankets any longer.  “Anyway, I’ll write you all the time.  Tell you about all the amazing stuff you’re missing.”

Neither of them believe this lie any more than the first, but Jim nods.  “Yeah.  I’ll write you, too.”

A pair of lies, then, so that they’re even.

There’s nothing more to say after that, and Jim helps his brother carry the rest of his things downstairs to pile by the door.  Most of it, Sam explains, won’t be coming with him.  Aunt Leah and Uncle Ed will be storing everything he doesn’t take, since the attic at the Kirk house is too full for even the few boxes that Sam has amassed.

Their mother is every bit as thrilled as Sam had said, and Frank seems proud in an amused, baffled sort of way.

“Hell of a thing,” is all he says, but he’s smiling broadly when he says it.

There is one last dinner together, all of them seated around the table the way they’ve been only a handful of times before.  Between Frank’s business and their mom’s Starfleet duties they’re rarely home at the same time, and sometimes Jim wonders why they even got married in the first place.  Seeing them now, Jim thinks that maybe it has something to do with how his mom is smiling, how Frank seems more open than he ever did in the months when it was just him and Jim and Sam.

Sam is leaving that night, Jim learns —right after dinner, in fact, so that he can catch the last shuttle from Riverside to IEP headquarters.  He’ll be attending orientation workshops over the summer, and then he and the other students will ship out for the first colony at the beginning of September.  There’s discussion and speculation about where he’ll be going first and the sorts of things he’ll be working on.  If anyone notices how quiet Jim is they don’t say anything.

There’s a flurry of activity after they’ve finished eating as they try to sort out the proper bag from the mess by the front door, their mother fussing over whether or not Sam has everything he’ll need.  Then they’re all piling into the aircar together, and it seems like only moments before they’re at the shuttle depot, and Sam is climbing aboard and waving and then . . . gone.  They drive away as the shuttle lifts into the air, and Jim peers after it until it’s lost into the gathering dark.

The house seems too quiet when they return, which doesn’t make any sense since Sam has never been as active or as loud as Jim.  Still, it seems lonelier there without him.  His mom and Frank make a token effort to draw him out, but on their last night together for months it’s not long before they only have eyes for each other.  Glum but unsurprised, Jim makes his way upstairs.

Their room—his room, he corrects himself; just his now—doesn’t make him feel any better.  It feels empty without Sam’s things there; too empty and too quiet.  Jim thinks about moving some of his things to the newly vacated shelves, maybe some of the stuff that’s strewn over his floor despite his mom’s repeated demands for him to clean up before their guests arrive.  He can’t bring himself to do it, though.  It feels too much like defeat, like admitting that Sam probably isn’t going to decide that he’d rather stay at home after all and take the next shuttle back.  So Jim contents himself with kicking some of his clothes and toys under his bed before he flops down onto it.

His first urge is to start a letter to Spock.  It’s something he’s gotten used to doing when he feels upset or lonely or bored.  But he reminds himself that Spock will be there tomorrow, that if Jim sent him a letter he’d probably get it right as he and his mom got to the house.  Jim can picture the way his eyebrow would wing up, the utter bafflement on his face, and he can’t help grinning.  The idea of his reaction is almost enough to make Jim do it anyway.

Instead he wriggles until his head is on the pillow and thinks about Spock being there for the whole summer.  It’s going to be great; they’ll hang out together, and Jim will introduce Spock to some of his friends—just the cool ones, he vows, the ones he knows won’t be jerks to him—and maybe he’ll be able to convince Bones to take them out to the shipyard.  His eyes are growing heavy as he imagines them there, sneaking through the gate or maybe scaling the fence, unseen by the guards.  In his mind’s eye the ship is finished, and though he isn’t quite sure how you get into a starship he imagines that there’s a small door near the ground that he and Spock can slip through.  They’ll drag Bones along despite the older boy’s protests that wanting to go into space should qualify as a sign of mental illness, and they’ll laugh as the ship sails away, into the stars . . .

There’s light streaming in through the door in the side of the ship, warm and enticing.  Jim follows it, stepping into a sun-drenched field of wheat almost as tall as he is.  It moves like an ocean in the breeze, waves rising and falling in the distance.  He turns, and instead of the ship he finds a group of low buildings, all soft white stone and bright glass, and stands of fruit trees in the distance.

As he walks forward he sees his brother standing on a shaded stone porch in front of one of the building.  There are other boys and girls with him, and long lab tables covered in complicated-looking equipment.  Sam looks up and smiles at him, waving him over.

“Pretty great, huh Jimmy?  You’ll love it when you head out; we’re getting this planet all ready for you.” 

There’s a basket of apples at the end of one table, their skin a bright and shiny red.  Sam hands one to him with a grin.  Jim, suddenly ravenous, eagerly sinks his teeth into the apple.  Juice flows over his tongue, sweet and sharp, but something else lingers at the back of his throat when he swallows.  It coats his tongue with a thick, almost chemical taste, and he gags.  A cramp seizes his stomach with no warning, stabbing pain doubling him over, making him gasp.

He looks down at the apple he holds and flings it away in horror.  What he’d thought was glossy red skin is actually a thick fuzz of crimson mold, the flesh beneath turning to soup as it quickly rots.  Another cramp hits and he falls to his knees.  The mold is growing inside of his mouth, over his tongue and down his throat, and he doesn’t want to die but he can’t _breathe_ —

“Jimmy.  Jim, sweetie, wake up.  It’s all right, it’s just a dream, wake up baby.”

His eyes shoot open, and for a moment he doesn’t understand what’s going on; but then he registers his mom’s warm arms around him, and just like that he breaks, sobbing as he burrows against her.  Gentle hands stroke his hair and she murmurs soft, soothing nonsense as he shakes.

“It’s okay, Jimmy, I’m here.  It’s okay.”

“It was poison,” Jim whimpers.  His face is hot and sticky with tears.  He knows he’s acting like a baby, but he doesn’t care; he just burrows against his mom like he can sink into her.  He wishes that he could.

“What was poison, baby?” she asks, smoothing her hands down his back. 

“The apple.”

“A poison apple?”  She sound like she might think it’s funny, but she’s still stroking his back and hair, so he’s willing to let it go.  “Like in Snow White?”

“ _No_ , it was different.  It was all moldy but I’d already eaten some and it _hurt_.”  He shudders, a deep tremor that goes all the way down to his bones.  “I don’t wanna go,” he whispers suddenly, and his mom eases him back at last to look down at him.  She doesn’t look like it’s funny anymore; she just looks worried.

“Go where, Jimmy?”

“I don’t wanna go to another planet.  Sam said I should, but I don’t want to, I don’t wanna go—”

“Shh, shh, it’s okay.  It’s all right.”  She gathers him up again.  “You don’t have to go anywhere if you don’t want to.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”  She presses a kiss to the top of his head.  “Let’s get you ready for bed, huh?”

He lets her guide him to the bathroom, brushes his teeth and puts on the pajamas she hands him.  He climbs back into bed and she tucks the covers in around him, kisses him again, turns out the light.  But he’s still too scared to go back to sleep, and the room is too quiet.

Tomorrow, he reminds himself.  It will be better tomorrow, because Spock will be there.  Maybe Jim will even tell him about his dream.  Then Spock can tell him how illogical it all is, and Jim can tell him that his face is illogical, and they can spend a while debating the finer points of Human comebacks.

Do Vulcans dream, he wonders?  And if they do, what do they dream _about_?  Probably math, he thinks.  Smiling to himself, he finally falls asleep thinking of Spock sharing a cup of tea with a host of prime numbers.

The next morning he’s up almost before the sun.  His mom and Frank are already in the kitchen; Frank will be leaving in less than an hour, and the smells of eggs and bacon and coffee are thick in the air.  When he walks in they both look surprised, but after a moment his mom stands and walks over to the replicator.

“Eggs, Jimmy?”

“Scrambled.”

Frank is staring at him over his coffee cup as if Jim is some strange new alien life form that has landed in his kitchen.  “For the past four months I’ve practically needed a fire hose to get you out of bed in time for school in the mornings.  One day into summer vacation and you’re up with the birds.  Who are you, and what have you done with Jim?”

Jim rolls his eyes and shrugs as his mom deposits his eggs in front of him.  “Maybe if school didn’t suck I’d be more excited about it.”

“Language, Jim,” his mom says sternly.  Then, to Frank, “He’s just excited to see Spock.  You know, I didn’t think Amanda and I would be able to tear those two apart when they had to go back to Vulcan last year.  We even talked about sending Jim there to visit sometime.”  She catches herself abruptly and flicks a worried glance Jim’s way.  The terror of the night before never hits him, though; in fact, he thinks that maybe if Spock were there then another planet wouldn’t be so bad.

“That could be cool,” is all he says, and he digs into his eggs.

Frank leaves not long after that.  He and Winona kiss each other goodbye, and then Frank pulls Jim close for a hug.  It’s a little awkward, a little weird, but it’s also kind of nice.  Nice to feel strong arms holding tight for a moment; nice to feel something like a father’s affection.  Jim thinks that he might, maybe, sort of like Frank.

He’s gone then, and Jim’s mom goes into a frenzy of activity.  There’s last-minute cleaning to be done, and Jim is sent up to his room to “straighten up that disaster area, Jimmy, I mean it.”  He shoves a few more things under his bed and spends most of his time at the window, watching for a ‘car.

When his mom calls up that she’s gotten the call that they’re on their way, though, Jim has a moment of crippling doubt.  Sure, they’ve sent letters back and forth, and part of Jim’s Christmas present was an actual subspace video call, and that had all been cool.  But now that Spock is going to be there in person, what if everything is different?  What if they don’t have anything to talk about?  Or what if Spock has decided Jim was too illogical and Human to be friends with?

Jim has never felt shy before, but he comes pretty close when he finally sees the ‘car heading towards the house.  That doesn’t stop him, though, from running downstairs like the house is on fire and skidding to a stop on the front porch.  Spock and Amanda climb out of the car, and Amanda smiles at him, and then Jim is off like a shot to barrel into her open arms.  It’s the second hug he’s gotten today; she smells sort of like spice, and it’s wonderful, and for a brief moment he doesn’t ever want to let go.

He leans back eventually and beams up at her.  “Hi.”

“Hi, Jimmy.”  There’s laugher in her voice as he disentangles himself.  “It’s good to see you, too.”

Jim’s mom comes out of the house then, and as the two women rush forward to meet each other Jim is left to face his friend at last. 

“Hey, Spock.”

“Hello, James.”

The smile on Jim’s face grows wider, because now that the moment is there it isn’t awkward at all.  It’s Spock—taller now, but still significantly shorter than Jim—and his eyes are warm in what looks like it might almost be something close to a smile.  Though Jim has been ‘James’ in all of Spock’s letters, it’s different somehow hearing it in person.  It makes something warm build in his chest, makes him grin like it’s Christmas morning.

“C’mon, lets get your stuff in.”

And Spock is just Spock, Jim’s sort-of-weird best friend, and Jim can’t help but feel somehow that the entire year in between last summer and now has just been some sort of really boring dream because things feel more real with Spock there.  If Jim were older the idea might have worried him, but as it is he’s busy digging things back out from under the bed in order to reach his fledgling collection of baseball chips.

“Don’t tell my mom,” he says quietly as he and Spock flip through the pages. 

“You do not wish her to know?”

Jim shrugs.  “If I told her why I started collecting them she’d get all sad because she’d start thinking about my dad again.  She hasn’t been that way as much since she and Frank got married.”  Something heavy seems to settle around his shoulders, and he does his best to simply shrug it off.  “The whole thing would just be a pain in the butt.”

Spock’s eyebrow quirks up and he shoots a quick, curious glance towards Jim’s backside.  “How would such an event cause pain to your posterior?”

Jim bursts into helpless giggles; he’d nearly forgotten Spock does that.  “It means . . . hee . . . um, means it’d be more trouble than it’s worth.”

“Ah.  Another human idiom.”  And to Jim’s surprise Spock pulls a PADD out of his robes and begins to enter something.

“What’s that?”  Jim cranes his neck, trying to get a look at the screen.

“I have begun my own collection,” Spock says loftily, though the look he sends Jim’s way seems less than completely self-assured.

“Yeah?  Cool!  What do you collect?”

“Human words and phrases, particularly ones that have little to no logical connection to their intended meanings.”

Jim lets that sink in for a moment before grinning broadly.  “You,” he proclaims, “are such a _nerd_.”  Spock’s eyebrow lifts again, and Jim laughs to see him making another quick entry on his PADD.  “We’ve gotta get Bones over to play; he talks more illogically than anyone I know.”

Things settle into an easy pattern at the Kirk house.  They do meet up with some of the kids from school eventually, and Jim is tense for the first hour or so, worried that he’ll have to step in and beat someone up for being mean to Spock.  He’s made sure to avoid the worst people, though, and things go all right.

Bones sits for them a few times, and though he refuses to take them into town again unless Jim goes on a leash, he does take them to the pool.  It turns out that Spock has never been swimming, because apparently having an easy way to cool off on a desert planet is illogical or something.  So Jim teaches him to tread water and open his eyes beneath the surface while Bones flirts with the lifeguard.  They both end up forgetting to put on sunscreen as often as they should, and Jim feels a little guilty to see Spock’s green-tinged shoulders afterwards.

It’s not until nearly a month later that Jim wakes in a panic again, heart racing wildly as he struggles for breath.

“James?”  Spock’s voice is quiet in the darkness, but it makes him flinch anyway.  “Are you in pain?”

“No.”  Jim curls in on himself, trying to stop his shivering.  “Just had a bad dream.”  He wants to get up, to sneak into his mom’s room and crawl into bed with her, but he’s too embarrassed to do it with Spock there.  “Do Vulcans have nightmares?” he asks before he can stop himself.

There’s a pause so long that he’s worried Spock is angry, but when the other boy speaks again his voice sounds as unemotional as ever.  “I can not speak for all Vulcans, but I do not believe that I ever have.”

“Right.  ‘Cause you guys don’t get scared, right?”

“Fear is an emotion, and so something we strive to control.”  It sounds rehearsed, like it’s something that Spock learned by heart a long time ago, and Jim’s lips twitch despite himself.

“Um . . . Spock?”

“Yes, James?”

His face is hot with embarrassment, but he has to ask.  “I know it’s stupid and illogical and stuff, but . . . can I, um . . . can I sleep with you tonight?”

There’s another pause, even longer this time.  “Very well,” Spock says at last.  Jim is out of bed almost before he’s finished speaking, slipping between the covers into unexpected heat.

“Wow.  You’re really warm.”  It should feel uncomfortable in the middle of summer, but Jim is still shivering, and he only burrows closer.

“James, may I ask a personal query?”

“Sure.”

“What did you dream about?”

Jim buries his face in the pillow.  It sounds silly, even in his head, because he doesn’t know how to explain it when there was really nothing all that scary about it.  He had been back on that planet where he had seen Sam, and he had been hungry.  So, so hungry.  But all of the food was rotting and poisoned, and he had been terrified because . . . he didn’t know why.  He’d only known that things were wrong, and something even worse was going to start happening soon.  But now, with Spock’s even breathing in his ears, it all seems ridiculous.

“Dunno,” he mumbles, even as guilt pools in his stomach at the lie.  “Don’t remember.”

“Oh.”

It’s quiet, and uninflected, and Jim can’t tell if Spock believes him or not.  But he’s warm and drowsy, and sleep doesn’t seem as scary as it did a few minutes ago, and he drifts away before he can worry.

Another month passes, and it’s nearly time for Spock and Amanda to return to Vulcan.  Jim is so determined not to think about it that he almost doesn’t notice how weird Spock is acting.  It’s subtle enough that no one else seems to pick up on it at all, but once Jim notices he wonders how they’ve all missed it.  Whenever Vulcan is mentioned Spock gets all tense, and when the actual subject of their return comes up his eyes widen and his hands tremble, which Jim eventually figures is probably the Vulcan equivalent of a panic attack.  He lets it go for a while; it doesn’t seem right to pry, after all, when he hadn’t been willing to talk about his own fears.  But he can only hold out for so long, and one day when they’re having lunch by the quarry he can’t take it any more.

“What’s up with you?” he blurts out.  “You freak out whenever anyone talks about Vulcan.”

This particular eyebrow tilt is ‘insulted’, and Jim takes a brief moment to relish being able to read his friend so well before Spock speaks.  “I do not _freak out_.”

“Yeah, you do.”  Jim takes another bite of his sandwich and chews for a moment before asking, “So what gives?”

Now the eyebrow is 'your table manners are disgusting', and Jim grins back around half-chewed bread and peanut butter.  Spock pointedly turns his attention to the broccoli tops they’ve brought along.

“There is, perhaps, a matter that . . . concerns me about our return,” he says at last, the tips of his ears flushed green in embarrassment at his confession.  Jim abandons his food and his joking attitude and leans forward.

“What is it?”

Spock hesitates for a moment.  “It will sound foolish.”

Guilt gnaws at Jim’s gut again, but he shoves the feeling aside.  “I promise I won’t laugh.”

“When we return . . .”  Spock looks up at him, visibly struggling with himself, and that more than anything has Jim’s concern skyrocketing.  “You know that Vulcans are telepathic.  I have never melded with anyone other than members of my own family, but there is a . . . ritual . . . that I must take part in when we return.  I will have to meld with someone whose mind I have never touched before, and I find the idea . . . unsettling.”

“Oh.”  Issues of telepathy are way beyond Jim’s area of understanding, but he tries his best.  “That sounds like it would be scary.”

“I . . .”  Spock glances away.  “I had theorized that perhaps my discomfort with the idea is due to the fact that I do not have experience in melding with people to whom I am not related.  And I had wondered . . . perhaps . . .”

Jim blinks.  “You, uh . . . you want to meld with me?”

Spock’s eyes shoot back to him, and his spine goes stiff.  “If the idea makes you uncomfortable—”

“No!”  Then Jim thinks about it for a moment and answers more calmly.  “No, it’s cool.”  He offers a lopsided grin.  “I trust you.  So do I need to do anything?”

For a moment Spock doesn’t seem to understand that Jim has just said yes.  Then his eyes clear and he takes a deep breath.  “Simply . . . stay still.”

A tall order, but at least he doesn’t have to do anything mental; he wouldn’t even know how to start there.  So he does as he’s told and tries to hold completely still as Spock rises to his knees and settles the fingers of one hand against Jim’s face.

“My mind to your mind,” Spock says quietly, and there’s the strangest sensation inside of Jim’s head.  Like feather-light touches against his thoughts, tentative and testing.  “My thoughts to your thoughts.”

And then—

 _Spock is there in his head, the sense of him warming Jim’s mind like sunlight.  It feels the way it does when Spock calls him ‘James’, but more.  Deeper.  Something in him unfurls, something that had been sleeping, waiting.  It’s warm and happy and he can feel the same thing in Spock, an answering_ something _that matches his own._

_Hey.  This is pretty cool._

_He can feel Spock’s surprise, because this isn’t scary at all.  It’s easy, in fact, like they’ve done it a hundred times before, and there is relief and comfort and . . ._

_Thank you, James._

_You’re welcome.  Can you stay for a while?_

_Yes._

_They're drifting, simply enjoying each other, and every now and then they let a memory surface to show the other.  I-Chaya, bigger even than Jim had expected, standing patiently while Spock/Jim contemplates the possibility of climbing atop his broad shoulders.  The view from the enormous larch tree on the playground, entirely worth the teachers’ shouts and the grounding waiting when Jim/Spock climbs down.  The school on Vulcan with its strange craters and the calm voice of the computer.  Food covered in mold and the fear that there would never be more, that there would only ever be hunger and pain and whatever horror was coming next._

_Comfort.  Ease.  Nothing they can’t handle with the two of them together.  Unstoppable._

Their mothers lecture them when they come home sunburned again, but it’s worth it when Jim can still feel Spock in his head for the rest of the night.  He falls asleep easily, and doesn’t dream.

 

 


	6. Daffodil Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Because the kid who’s coming is _Vulcan_ , for heaven’s sake. There’s nothing fun about Vulcans. They’re logical and boring and, if Jim’s being completely honest, just the tiniest bit scary. And this is the boy who will be in his house, sharing his room, sleeping in his brother’s bed. How is he even supposed to start trying to make friends with someone so . . . well, alien?_

**Author's Note:** So here's where I really start playing fast and loose with canon.  Nothing is safe!  This part went much more quickly than the last (obviously), partly because I've had this scene in my head almost since the very beginning.  And, um . . . sorry, but needs must.

 

 

 

 

Spock has been thinking of this for a month before he leaves the house in the dead of night and steals his family’s speeder.

The delay has been difficult.  There had a part of him that had wanted to set out as soon as the idea occurred to him, but to do so would have been detrimental to his goal.  Instead he has taken the time to weigh the various factors involved, to thoughtfully consider his options and determine the best course of action.  It is the _Vulcan_ approach, and he has followed it as best he may.

It is the events of today that have finally decided him.  He had received proper medical attention, and his split lip and bruises had healed under the dermal regenerator, but there somehow seemed to be a lingering soreness that was still proving a distraction by the time the call from James had come in.

“Hey, Spock.”  His friend’s smiling face had filled the screen, and Spock had found himself perilously close to smiling back.  “Merry Christmas.”

“Vulcans do not celebrate Christmas,” he had replied automatically, prompting James to roll his eyes.

“Duh, I know that, it’s just . . . what you say.  Whatever.  How are things on Vulcan, besides hot and logical?”

“Things are . . .”  Spock had found himself momentarily at a loss.  He had wanted to say that things were well, to move the conversation on to James and Earth and Iowa, but Vulcans do not lie.  His delay had been long enough for James to frown, concern written clearly across his face.

“Spock?  What’s up?  Am I gonna have to kick some Vulcan butt when I get there this summer?”

“The attempt would be unwise,” Spock had said immediately.  “I have also been forced to conclude,” he had added hesitantly, “that your proposed visit would be best . . . postponed.”

“Oh.”  James’s face had fallen, and his eyes had dropped from the screen to his lap.  “Right, okay.  I . . . how come?”

Spock had debated his next words for three point eight seven seconds before responding.  “I was involved in a physical altercation with two of my peers today at the end of our academic period.”

James had had the look on his face that he once explained as his ‘translating Spock to Standard’ expression.  Spock had been able to tell the exact moment when he understood, because his eyes had grown wide and his jaw had dropped.  “You got into a fight at school?!”

“I believe that that is what I said,” Spock had replied stiffly.

“Yeah, but . . . you got into a _fight_?  _You_ got into a fight?  You never fight!  Even when I accidentally spilled grape juice on your PADD, you barely blinked!”  Ridiculously, James had looked very nearly impressed.  “Someone must’ve really pissed you off good.”

Spock had wanted to deny it, but to do so would have been dishonest.  Even the memory had filled him with rage until he was nearly blind with it, and he had only pushed his emotions down again with great effort.  He had taken a moment then to listen to his surroundings so that he could be assured that his mother was not close enough to hear what he was about to say.

“My mixed heritage is not seen favorably by many of my peers,” he had said at last.  “Some of them have been attempting to elicit an emotional response from me in order to prove that I am not adequately Vulcan.  In the past they had confined their insults to my own person; today . . .”  He had hesitated, unsure.  He had told no one the full extent of what the other boys had said, not even his own father.  What they had said about him hadd been repeatable, but the other . . . Spock had not believed he could even force his mouth to form the word.  But James had looked at him out of serious blue eyes, and something had flickered warmly at the back of Spock’s mind.  “They widened their aspersions to include my mother,” had been all he could say, but from the horror on James’s face it had seemed to be enough.

“Those . . . they’re just a bunch of . . .”  Spock had gotten the impression that James was unable to think of a word despicable enough to describe Spock’s assailants.  “I hope you _physical altercationed_ their teeth down their throats!”

Spock had not tried to mitigate the flush that he had been able to feel rising to the tips of his ears.  “I believe that I was not the worse off at the time we were separated.”

“Good.”  James’s smile had been fierce, but had quickly faltered.  “That’s why you don’t want me to come this summer?”

Something had constricted tightly in Spock’s side, and he had wondered briefly if he had sustained more damage from the larger boy than previously thought.  “I do wish for you to visit, James, but I no longer believe that it would be wise.”  He had hesitated, unsure of the reception of his next question.  “However, if it would be acceptable for me to stay with you again—”

“Of course, yeah!” James had said before Spock had even been able to finish.  “Dude, you don’t even have to ask.  You know Mom likes you better than me anyway,” he had grinned.  “What about your mom, is she gonna come too?”

“I am uncertain.  My father will be attending a conference on Andoria, and if she will not need to supervise us here she may choose to join him.”

“Hey Spock?”

“Yes, James?”

“Those guys . . . they’re idiots.”  James’s face had been as serious as Spock had ever seen it, and warmth had spread through him again.  “You’re totally cool.”

Spock had flushed again at that, and they had spent the rest of their hour talking about easier things.  James’s stepfather had rented a house in town for them to stay in during the school year, so that neither he nor James would have to spend half an hour driving to town for work or school.  Spock has been learning advanced computer programming, which James insisted he teach him.  Last week had seen James as the target of a strange new game at his school and resulted in most of the girls and nearly half of the boys constantly chasing him, and leading to his first, second, third and fourth kisses in a span of two days.

“What about that . . .”  It had been James’s turn to glance around nervously and lower his voice.  “That _meld_ thing?  You haven’t mentioned it in any of your letters; did it go okay?”

Spock’s throat had tightened.  “It was . . . fine.”

James had accepted that and moved on, oblivious to the unease that had curled in Spock’s stomach.  It had seemed less than entirely honest, though with its variable definitions it was, he had reflected later, not an inaccurate word.

The ceremony itself had been simple enough.  The two of them had met and touched minds twice before, and though it had been nothing like the meld with James, Spock had found T’Pring appealing in her own way.  Their minds were remarkably similar in their structure and order, and melding with her had been like slipping into a reflection of himself.  He had sensed her surprise at his logic and control, having previously assumed that his Human half would have caused disorder, bred chaos.  T’Pau had verified their compatibility and guided them in the formation of the marriage bond, and for seven point three six seconds Spock had felt T’Pring’s awareness in his own mind.  Then she had raised her shields, and it was with no small sense of relief that he had done the same.

In the simplest respect, then, the bonding had been successful.  However, there have been unexpected repercussions.  Spock has never been popular among his peers, but he must admit that things have only grown worse since his bonding to T’Pring.  Though her clan is not nearly so well-respected as Spock’s, she is popular among his peers for the strength and order of her mind as well as her aesthetic appeal, and many others had sought her as a match for their sons.  That she is now bonded to Spock, to a half-Human, is seen by many as an insult to Vulcan tradition.  So far as Spock is aware, that is where it ends with the adults.

Those his own age, however, have yet to perfect their emotional control.  In them Spock has been able to sense resentment, even anger.  It is no coincidence, he is certain, that the worst of the behavior to which he has been subjected began after his bond with T’Pring was confirmed.  He has been over the evidence again and again, considered it from as many different angles as he can fathom.  In the end, however, he always returns to the same conclusion: that if their objection lies in their view of him as less than wholly Vulcan, then the logical solution is to prove that view to be erroneous.

He is scheduled to undergo the _kahs-wan_ in a month’s time.  His mother, he knows, has been strongly protesting the idea, but his father has held firm.  Spock is grateful for that; he knows that neglecting to undergo this rite of passage will only confirm his unworthiness in his assailants’ eyes.  The events of today, however, have convinced him that even this additional delay would be detrimental.  His own control is not solid enough to assure that another physical altercation will not occur should he be attacked again.  And so the idea that has been waiting at the back of his mind since the news of his bonding spread has been put into action.

The night is dark and quiet, and he makes his way out of the house as silently as possible.  Spock wishes briefly for the light of Earth’s moon to guide his steps before he squashes the illogical fancy.  _Kaiidth_.  What is, is, and wishing will not change that.  A light source is allowed during the _kahs-wan_ , and Spock has brought a small flashlight with him.  It will suffice.

He is nearly out the front door when he hears a soft sound behind him.  He turns quickly to see I-Chaya close on his heels, curiosity bright in his eyes.  Spock makes the sign for him to stay and turns again.

Halfway through the garden he glances back to see the _sehlat_ still slinking along behind him, as though stealth can negate the sheer bulk of him and keep him hidden.  Spock walks back to where I-Chaya is hunched and lays a hand on one broad shoulder.

“You can not come with me,” he says softly, aware of how foolish it is to speak to an animal as though it can understand, yet unable to help himself.  “I must go alone; to have you with me would negate the trial.”  I-Chaya makes a low, distressed noise and pushes into Spock’s hand, nearly knocking him over.  “No,” Spock says, making his voice as firm as possible.  “You must stay.”

He turns again and does not look back this time, heading directly for the speeder that is parked outside of the house.  He climbs aboard and has it running almost immediately; he does not have the access code, but the controls are almost insultingly easy to hack.  In no time at all he is headed away from his home, flying swiftly towards Vulcan’s Forge.

Spock dares not take the speeder the entire way.  He is certain that his parents will seek him out when they discover that he is gone, and he is determined to remain until his quest is complete.  With that in mind, he abandons the vehicle two kilometers away from the edge of the Forge and sets off on foot.  He still has several hours before the sun will rise and his absence will be discovered; more than enough time to put adequate distance between himself and the abandoned speeder, as well as find some type of shelter from the daytime heat.

His feet soon tire, but Spock pushes on.  This far from the city the starlight is sufficiently bright to light his way, and he turns his flashlight off.  The battery will have to last him for ten days, after all; it is only logical to conserve it while he can.

By the time he reaches the edge of the L-langon mountain range Spock finds that he must pause to rest.  He can hear the rush of the river that runs through the center of the canyon and is glad to know that he will, at least, have a ready source of water.  While he knows that he is capable of going ten days without food, he thinks that perhaps he will try to catch some of the small lizards that frequently sun themselves on the desert rocks.  Provided he is able to find a cave of some sort to shield himself from the sun during the day, he feels that his chances of survival are excellent.  When he returns his peers will have to recognize him as truly Vulcan, and though he is not foolish enough to believe that their antagonism will end, perhaps they will at least return to more passive forms of expression.

His mind turns again to the afternoon’s altercation, and again rage fills him at the memory.  Spock tries to do as his elders have taught him, to let the anger fill him and flow away like sand through a sieve.  He can not help but remember, however, the sound of the words as the other boy had spoken them.  _Human whore_ , he had said, and on his lips the words sounded the same.  _Human whore_.  _Human_.  _Whore_.  And if the words are the same, then what of the other Humans he knows?  What of the rest of his mother’s family, and Winona Kirk, and Leonard McCoy?

What of James?

Spock stands no chance against his fury, then, and he is hardly aware of his hands curling into fists at his sides.  He longs to have the other boys there again, to have the chance to beat the slurs and lies from their mouths, to break them until they can never speak such hateful words again.  The world around him ceases to exist, leaving him alone in the darkness of his rage.

Something heavy collides with him, and his anger is replaced instantly with panic.  He struggles, but he is pinned, held down by a large, furry body.  Fangs hover mere inches from his face.  Spock feels his heart thumping hard against his ribs as they descend.

A warm, wet tongue snakes out to lick at the side of his face, and Spock looks up into I-Chaya’s face with mingled relief and annoyance.

“Off,” he manages to say, though the fall has left him short of breath, and I-Chaya climbs off of him to sit sedately nearby.  As Spock hauls himself to his feet he notes that the _sehlat_ looks almost pleased, as though finding Spock has been a new game at which he has managed to excel.  “You were meant to stay at home.”

I-Chaya seems to take that as an invitation to move forward again and sniff at Spock’s neck.  Clearly the _sehlat_ has tracked him by scent after following the speeder—an easy enough task, as Spock had flown in a straight line between ShiKahr and Vulcan’s Forge.  The _sehlat_ seems oblivious to Spock’s irritation now as he huddles close.  Spock has to exert a great force of will to keep from burrowing against his pet in turn; the night is cool in the desert, and I-Chaya is pleasantly warm.

“You must return.” 

There is no response to this order, and Spock barely smothers a sigh.  His mother insists that it is hardly logical to expect an animal to respond to reason.  Indeed, her commands do tend to elicit greater obedience from the sehlat than either Spock or his father manage; Spock’s father remarked once that he must respond to an emotional appeal from one animal to another.  Spock remembers being surprised that his mother, far from taking offense at such a statement, had merely laughed and extended her fingers for a kiss.

“Go home,” he tries again, doing his best to convey his displeasure in his voice as he points in the direction from which they came.  “You have been a very bad _sehlat_ to follow me,” he says in mimicry of how his mother has chided the animal before.  I-Chaya merely whines, however, and presses himself against Spock in protest.

Spock reflects that perhaps he is not equipped to make an emotional appeal.

He is about to try again when I-Chaya tenses.  A low, threatening growl builds in his broad chest.  It is a sound that Spock has never heard from the _sehlat_ before, and shivers cascade down his spine in response.  He has already taken a careful step back before he realizes that I-Chaya’s eyes are not fixed on him.  They are focused instead somewhere over his shoulder, and before Spock can even think to move again the _sehlat_ surges forward to Spock’s other side, still growling.  Spock turns and looks up, his heart beating hard in his side. 

The _le-matya_ is only just visible in the shadows on the cliff above them, its eyes glowing brightly in the meager light.

Panic blooms hot and bright in Spock’s mind.  They have studied _le-matyas_ in school, and he knows exactly enough to terrify him.  They are sleek, and fast, and poisonous . . . and Spock has no weapons.  His mouth is dry and he feels rooted to the spot, as though the ground has risen up to cover his feet and lock him in place.  The _le-matya_ slinks forward, and I-Chaya growls again as he moves to keep himself between the cat and Spock.

The logical thing to do, Spock knows, would be to keep back and let I-Chaya fight the _le-matya_ when it attacks.  That it will attack is never in doubt.  It can do nothing else—such is its nature.  Spock will have no chance against it, while I-Chaya may prevail.  Certainly Spock would have the chance to escape during the fight, in any case.  He should wait, and when the cat attacks he should run.

He remembers curling up against I-Chaya’s side as he studies his physics.  He remembers being ill and always waking to find the _sehlat_ at his side.  He remembers the comfort that he has found in that warm body, in the dusty smell of his fur.

He thinks, irrelevantly, that James would not run.

There is a small scattering of rocks three steps to his right.

The first rock is already flying through the air as Spock gathers the rest, and it clatters loudly immediately to the _le-matya_ ’s left.  The cat turns its gaze to him then and hisses menacingly.  Spock throws another rock, vaguely aware that he is shouting at I-Chaya to run.  This time he finds his target; the cat’s head jerks sharply to the side as it is struck and it lets loose with a screeching yowl that threatens to turn Spock’s bones to paste.  Another rock follows quickly, then another.  Spock still has three stones in his hand when the _le-matya_ pounces.

The collision knocks him from his feet and sends him flying, which is all that saves him from the venom that coats the cat’s claws.  Spock lands badly, and he hears the snap of bone almost before he feels the pain blaze through his leg.  His breath is caught in his throat, his lungs refusing to function for long moments as his vision goes dark at the edges.  He forces down the pain, reminding himself that concerns of the body exist only at the mind’s will, and struggles to rise.  At any moment he expects to feel the _le-matya_ ’s claws raking through him, its jaws closing around his throat.

He manages to turn in time to see I-Chaya sink his fangs deep into the _le-matya’_ s side.  For a moment he thinks that the _sehlat_ has triumphed; a moment later, however, I-Chaya falls, and Spock sees that the _le-maty_ _a_ ’s claws are dark with blood.

It screams again, abandoning its fallen prey to dive for Spock.  He can not run, can not even move, and he only regrets—

The sound of phaser fire, familiar from the vids that James is so fond of watching, echoes in his ears.  A beam of light hits the _le-matya_ ; its body twists in surprise, and that is enough to have it landing next to Spock instead of on top of him.  When it hits the ground it does not rise again.  Spock scoots back quickly nevertheless, fear still racing through his veins as he turns to search for the source of the shot.

An adult he does not recognize is running quickly towards him.  He sheathes the phaser at his waist as he kneels next to Spock.

“You are injured.”  His voice is deep and soothing, and Spock nods.  The rush of chemicals that had flooded him in the past several minutes begin to ebb, and sudden exhaustion rushes through him.  “You are safe now.”

The adult opens a small kit at his waist and removes a thick, flat piece of metal.  With a few quick motions he unfolds it, and Spock realizes that it is a splint.

“This will hurt,” he is warned, and he can only nod again before bearing down on the searing pain that stabs through him as his leg is straightened and lashed to the splint.

The pain and fear and guilt are too much for him to bear any longer, and he feels himself begin to slip into unconsciousness.  Warm hands brush the hair back from his forehead, and a whisper of the man’s mind filters through the touch.  His thoughts are calm and centered, even with all that has happened, and along with his own thoughts there is a sense of _other_ , familiar and bright and soothing.  Spock closes his eyes, his sudden calm completely at odds with everything that has happened that night.

When he wakes again he is in his own bed, his leg is aching, and his mother is lying asleep next to him.  He has only been asleep for a few hours, but his leg has been set and the palm of his right hand tingles with fresh skin, the sure after-effect of a dermal regenerator.  His mother stirs when he does; and moments later she is fully awake, alternately clutching him to her and demanding to know what he’d thought he was doing, sneaking away from home and endangering his own life and he could have died and she’s so angry with him, she’s so glad he’s safe.  Spock wants to recoil from the emotional storm, but it was his own actions that caused it, so the least he can do now is to weather the consequences.

His attention focuses, however, when he hears his friend’s name.  “What about James?”

His mother sighs angrily.  “I shouldn’t even let you talk to him.  I should ban you from all subspace communication.  But the poor boy nearly had a heart attack when he called and you weren’t here, so you’re going to call him and tell him you’re all right and that you’re grounded for the next three months _at least_.”

Spock still does not quite understand, but he moves to the console in his room without hesitation and begins to initiate the call.  It requires parental authorization, which his mother enters with angry stabs of her finger against the screen.  Then she leaves, and Spock waits the long moments alone before James’s face appears on the screen.

“Spock.”  His face looks drawn and pale, but immediately eases into relief when he sees his friend.  “I . . . you’re okay.”

“Yes.  My leg was broken, but with the Healers’ aid it will mend soon enough.”

“Don’t ever . . .”  James falters for a moment, and when he speaks again it is as though he has no control over his words.  “Don’t ever scare me like that again.  I called and your mom said you were gone and I thought you were dead and just _don’t_ , okay?”

Guilt rises in Spock’s throat, and he does not try to fight it.  “I apologize, James.  I had not considered that you would be concerned.  I had not thought that you would even be aware . . . why _did_ you call?”

James’s eyes flicker to the side of the screen.  “I had that dream again,” he says softly.  “And you were there somewhere, but I couldn’t find you, and it . . . it just scared me, and I had to talk to you.  To make sure you were okay.  So I snuck downstairs and used Mom’s override to call you because she accidentally let me see it before, but when I got through your mom was freaking out because you were gone and you were in some sort of trouble.  She said they could feel it.”

Spock lowers his eyes now.  He had anticipated a search, and perhaps some level of concern, but he had been unprepared for the depth of emotion that his disappearance would unearth.  He is ashamed of his actions.

“Your mom told me about I-Chaya,” James says at last.  “That he’s hurt.  Are you . . . is he gonna be okay?”

“I do not know.”  The memory rushes back at once, the sight of I-Chaya lying still on the desert sand.  “I have only just woken up.”

“Well.”  James is picking at his nails; Spock can tell, though his hands are off-screen.  “Your mom’s pretty pissed at you.”

“Yes.  She wished for me to inform you that I am ‘grounded’.”

James winces.  “That sucks.  How long?”

“A minimum of three months.”  James’s eyes go wide, and Spock presses on.  “I will consult my PADD, but I do not believe that I have collected the meaning of that term yet.”

James’s grin looks a little evil.  “Well, you’ll find out what it means.”  There is an indistinct voice on James’s end, and he glances to the side with another wince.  “Speaking of.  I’ve gotta go; Frank’s pissed because I racked up a huge bill calling you so many times.  I only got to take this call to make sure you weren’t dying.”

“Understood.  I will write to you at a later time.”

“Cool.  Let me know how the grounding goes.”

“James?”

“Yeah?”

Spock takes a deep breath.  “I am sorry.”

James smiles for real then.  “Thanks, Spock.  I’ll talk to you later.”

An hour later, Spock finds the man who rescued him crouched in the front garden.  He is stooped over the path, and to Spock’s puzzlement seems to be lifting handful after handful of dirt, letting the sand sift back through his fingers.  He straightens slowly to look out over the view of the desert that their home affords.

“I had almost forgotten . . .”  He turns to Spock, who realizes with a start that the other man had already known he was there.  But his eyes are warm, and Spock is quickly put at ease.  “This planet’s beauty is . . . startling at times.”

Spock does not know how to answer that, so instead he moves on to what he had come out with the intention of saying.  “I wish to express my gratitude for your actions.”

The man’s eyebrow twitches, and Spock is left with the absurd idea that he is holding back laughter.  “You are most welcome,” he says easily.

“Father says that you are our _al-sa_.”

“Yes.  I am a member of the same clan, though I no longer live . . .”  His face goes impressively blank.  “I have made my home elsewhere.  You may call me Selek.”

“It was most fortunate that you happened to find me.”

“It was, indeed.  I was heading out of the city and saw your abandoned speeder.  Had I been any later, you may well have become much more closely acquainted with that _le-matya_ than you would have cared to.”

It is on the tip of Spock’s tongue to ask why Selek had been traveling from the city at that hour, but he holds his curiosity at bay.  He owes this man much, and the debt would be poorly repaid by pressing uninvited into his personal affairs.

“Your _sehlat_ ,” Selek says a moment later.  “He was very badly injured, was he not?”

“Yes.”  Spock feels tears start to rise and pushes them back down.  “The Healer said that I-Chaya was hurt beyond his abilities.  He may live, but his wounds will give him constant pain.”

“And what will you choose for him?” Selek asks softly, and Spock stares down at the path beneath their feet.

“I have not yet decided.”  He does not know why, but he feels compelled to ask in any case.  “What do you believe I should do?”

Selek moves his hands behind his back.  “I can not advise you in this; you must make your own decision, Spock, without assistance from me or anyone else.”  He hesitates for a brief moment.  “I must leave soon.”  His voice sounds slightly strained, but Spock is well bred enough to refrain from commenting.  “However, before I do, I _would_ like to give you one piece of advice.  I hope that some measure of gratitude for my actions will encourage you to listen.”

Spock nods.

“You seek to gain mastery over your emotions.  That is admirable, but you must take care not to confuse repression for control.  At this time you force aside any emotional reactions that may occur, but in doing so you only allow them to grow beyond your ability to regulate.  In order to obtain true control you must first recognize that your emotions are a part of you, every bit as much as your logic or your physical form.  Recognize them, accept them, but do not let them control you.  Do you understand?”

Spock considers for a moment before he answers as truthfully as he can.  “No.  But I shall endeavor to do so.”

“Admirable,” Selek says.  “Please convey my gratitude to your parents for their hospitality, and my regrets that I must leave so abruptly.”

“I will.”  Spock lifts his hand in the _ta’al_.  “Live long and prosper, Selek.”

Selek’s lips actually twitch as he returns the salute.  “Live long and prosper, Spock.”

 

 


	7. Daffodil Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Because the kid who’s coming is _Vulcan_ , for heaven’s sake. There’s nothing fun about Vulcans. They’re logical and boring and, if Jim’s being completely honest, just the tiniest bit scary. And this is the boy who will be in his house, sharing his room, sleeping in his brother’s bed. How is he even supposed to start trying to make friends with someone so . . . well, alien?_

**Author's Note:** HAPPY (totally belated) BIRTHDAY TO [](http://momo-girlie.livejournal.com/profile)[**momo_girlie**](http://momo-girlie.livejournal.com/)!  This ~~Bud's~~ update's for you!  (Convenient, too, that this story won my poll by a ridiculously wide margin.  52% constitutes a mandate, right?)  Just a little bit more random adorableness from the boys.  I swear we'll get to something resembling plot at some point.  More drawing-inspired bits in this one, for [this picture](http://anubis-admirer.deviantart.com/art/Pets-Doggy-143530916) and [this picture](http://anubis-admirer.deviantart.com/art/Kitty-coloured-155818800) (plus bonus references to [this](http://anubis-admirer.deviantart.com/art/Spock-meets-sugar-glider-146609125) and [this](http://anubis-admirer.deviantart.com/art/Sleepy-Spock-sketch-142462057), sort of).

 

 

 

 

 

 

It takes no effort at all, really, to convince Jim’s mom to let them camp out in the backyard.

They have a tent, but it’s so nice outside in the fading sunlight that they’ve spread their sleeping bags out on the grass instead.  They’re lying side-by-side staring up at the sky, watching as it deepens and darkens, and waiting for the first stars to appear.

“This is camping?” Spock asks.  His voice sounds skeptical, which only makes Jim grin.

“Yeah.  Well, sort of.  Anyway it’s closer than putting the tent in our room and sticking up those glow-in-the-dark stars, which was Mom’s backup plan in case it rained.”  Jim stretches languidly—that’s a new word he learned recently, _languid_ , and he’s infatuated with it.  “I’ve gone for real with Bones’s family a couple times, up in the Rockies.  Way up high, where the air’s so thin it’s like learning to breathe all over again.”

“Vulcan’s atmosphere is considerably thinner than Earth’s,” Spock reminds him.  “I would likely feel quite at home.”

“It gets cold, too.  Especially at night.”

“Ah.  In that case I believe I will defer my plans for a trip there.”

Jim isn’t entirely successful at biting back his smile.  He’s sure Spock already knows more about oxygenation levels and ambient temperature at high Earth elevations than most people who live there.  In fact, he’s fairly certain that there isn’t much, scientifically speaking, that Spock doesn’t know.  He’s easily the smartest person Jim’s ever met; for the first time in his life, Jim has to work to keep up with someone his own age.  Which only makes it better, in his opinion, when Spock is willing to play along like this.

And speaking of . . .

“Hey.”  Jim nudges Spock’s shoulder with his.  “Let’s play.”

Spock sighs, and Jim grins.  Spock never sighs when he really means it, only when he’s trying to tease.  Sure enough, he says, “Very well,” and points.  “There.”

“What, the bit that looks like a squashed burrito?”

“I would advise you to _look_ at where I am pointing, James.”

“I am!  I just can’t figure out what you’re pointing _at_.”

Spock sighs again, and shifts, and a moment later he is nearly on top of Jim, moving so that their perspectives are the same.  Jim’s heart beats hard in his chest for a moment before his eyes follow the line of Spock’s outstretched arm.  “ _There_.”

“Right.”  Spock moves back to his own sleeping bag and Jim shakes off the sudden, strange awareness of his own limbs and looks at the small cluster of stars that have appeared in the darkening sky.  “We’re gonna discover a new planet there.  It’ll have . . . pink sand beaches, and jungles, and a bunch of villagers will be trying to sacrifice the chief’s daughter to a volcano and we’ll save her.”

“We will save the chief’s daughter from becoming the victim of ritual sacrifice?”

“To a volcano.  Yeah.”

“Would that not be a violation of your Starfleet’s Prime Directive?”

Jim frowns.  “There’s probably an exception in there for saving a chief’s daughter.  Anyway, then the chief will be so grateful—there was a mutiny—”

“A mutiny can only occur on a ship, James.”

“Fine, there was a . . . a coup, but we save his daughter and then volcano explodes and kills all the usurpers, and he’s so grateful that he gives the Federation all the dilithium on the planet, which they don’t need anyway since they’re a pre-warp society.”

“If saving the chief’s daughter results in the volcano’s explosion, perhaps it would have been best to let the villagers sacrifice her after all.”

“ _What_?”  Jim’s jaw drops open.  “We can’t let them sacrifice her!  Not even if the volcano explodes.  Nothing good ever starts with human sacrifice, and no,” he says before Spock can respond, “she’s not exactly human, but . . .”  He blinks.  Spock’s face is perfectly bland, but Jim would swear he can _feel_ his amusement.  “You’re teasing me.”

Spock’s chin lifts.  “Vulcans do not tease,” he assures Jim.

“Yeah?”  Jim starts to grin, unable to help himself.  “What about _half_ -Vulcans, huh?”  He reaches out and messes up Spock’s hair, laughing when the other boy makes a noise of surprised protest and pulls away.  “What about them?”

“You are being immature, James.”

“I’m seven; I’m allowed.” 

He reaches out again, but Spock catches his arm before Jim’s hand can reach his hair again.  Jim laughs, and they wrestle for a moment before Spock decides he’s had enough and simply uses his greater strength to pin Jim to the ground again.  He pulls back once Jim goes still, and settles back down beside him.

“It’s your turn,” he says placidly.

Still laughing, Jim points up at a random patch of sky.  “There.”

“I sincerely doubt that we will be exploring that particular area of space, James.  Among other things, the Briar Patch lies in that direction and—”  He cuts off when Jim pokes him in the side and sighs again.  “Very well.”  He’s silent for a moment.  Then, with a muttered, “This is illogical,” he begins.  “That is where we will intercept an Orion slave ship on its way to a peaceful planet, where it plans to raid the populace.”

“Make it after they’ve already raided,” Jim interrupts.  “It’s more exciting that way.”  Spock gives him a look that very clearly says, _This is my story and I will tell it as I please, James_ , and Jim shrugs.  “Okay, sorry.”

Spock pauses for a moment to be sure Jim is really finished, then nods.  “We will intercept it _after_ it has just raided a peaceful planet.  After a battle in which our own ship is very nearly destroyed and you suffer a great deal of illogical guilt for not getting there _before_ they captured the slaves, we will defeat the Orions and free the captives.”

“And we should free the Orion slave girls, too,” Jim adds once he’s sure Spock is finished.  “I bet they’d be _really_ grateful.”

“Almost certainly, as I imagine any slave would be.”

“Yeah, but these are _Orion girls_.”  He gives Spock a significant look and gets a raised eyebrow in return.  “You know.”  Jim sighs, and unlike Spock’s his is real.  “You aren’t interested in making a bunch of Orion girls really, _really_ grateful?”

“I would be gratified to aid in stopping the spread of slavery for any race,” Spock says, and Jim rolls his eyes because he’s gone even more formal than usual.  It’s never good when Spock goes extra-Vulcan.  “I see no reason why Orion females should produce a greater sense of satisfaction than any other prisoners.”  Jim can’t help the laugh that snorts out through his nose, and Spock looks at him askance.  “What was amusing about my statement?”

“Just . . . ‘satisfaction’ . . . it’s funny.”  Spock is still staring at him, so Jim just shakes his head.  “Nevermind.”  They lie quietly for a moment before Jim feels compelled to speak again.  “Spock?”

“Yes, James?”

“I’m really glad you decided to visit,” he says quietly.

“You were have been aware that I was coming to visit you for the past five point two seven months,” Spock reminds him.  “Why should you be glad of what was already a certainty?”

“I’m always glad when you come here,” Jim says, turning a bright grin on his friend.  It falters after a moment, however, and he shrugs, looking back to the stars.  “I dunno.  I guess . . . since I couldn’t go to Vulcan after all, I was sort of . . . afraid you’d decide not to come this year,” he says quickly.

“That is illogical,” Spock says, his voice very nearly soft.  “I greatly enjoy visiting Earth, and far prefer it to staying on Vulcan.  And though I have never been to Andoria, I would venture to speculate that I would not prefer a trip there, either.”

Jim snorts.  “You’re probably the first person in the history of the universe to say he actually wants to spend time in Riverside.”

“It is less a question of geography,” Spock says, “and more a question of company.  I value yours greatly, James.”  Jim feels a flush heating his face, but apparently Spock isn’t finished.  “I do not have many friends at home,” he continues awkwardly, lying stiff and still beside Jim.  “I would venture to say, in fact, that you are my first true friend beyond . . .”

Jim watches as Spock’s jaw sets, and he reaches out to brush his fingers against the back of his friend’s hand.  “I’m really sorry about I-Chaya,” he says.  He bites his lip, unsure.  He looked the words up in the library, but his pronunciation’s probably all wrong and he’s not sure if it’s the kind of thing you say when a pet dies, but . . . but even though Spock’s face is as still as ever, Jim knows he’s heartbroken.  Knows he’s hurting.  And so in the end, the words spill out on their own.  “ _Tushah nash-veh k'du_.”

Spock’s head whips around to face him, surprise clear in his eyes.  He stares at Jim, and after a moment his eyes soften.  “Thank you,” he whispers.

Jim’s heart is racing again, and he smiles.  This moment feels significant somehow, as though they’ve passed a marker of some sort.  It’s a little bit frightening, but he finds that he can’t stop smiling anyway.  Then a thought occurs to him, and his smile brightens.

“Okay, I have officially the best idea ever.”

Spock’s eyes go from soft to wary in an instant.  “That does not bode well,” he mutters, and Jim pokes him in the side again.

“Quiet.  This idea is totally awesome.  Tomorrow’s gonna be great.”

“Would you care to inform me as to the specifics of this idea?”

“Nope,” Jim says happily, and wriggles over onto his stomach, bunching his pillow beneath his head.  “Gonna have to wait and see.”

“James,” Spock presses, “have you forgotten that Leonard is going to be supervising us again tomorrow?”

“’m counting on it,” Jim mumbles.  He always falls asleep faster outside in the fresh air, and his eyelids are already growing heavy.

“If you continue misbehaving when he is engaged to supervise us he will eventually cease agreeing to do so.”

“Nah, he won’t.”  Jim grins as he begins to drift off.  “He knows he needs the excitement.”

“James?”

“Hmm?”

There’s a pause, and the shifting slide of Spock resettling on his sleeping bag.

“ _Nemaiyo, t’nash-veh sa-kai_ ,” Spock says at last, so quietly Jim isn’t sure he was supposed to hear it at all.  But even though he doesn’t understand them, the words fill him with warmth, and he smiles as he falls asleep.

The next morning they go inside to eat breakfast—Jim’s mom flat-out refused to let them build a fire to make food outside—and clean up.  It makes Jim smile to see Spock’s hair go from mussed and sticking up in odd directions to as neat and tidy as ever by the time they sit down to eat.  Jim’s mom is rushing around as she usually is when she has to leave for the day, trying to find a half-dozen things she’s misplaced.  Jim thinks about making a snarky comment about picking up after yourself not being all it’s cracked up to be, but his mom can get scary when she’s like this.  He opts to eat his toast instead, and scan through Spock’s astrophysics PADD.  He wishes, sometimes, that he could go to school on Vulcan; at least what they study there is actually interesting.

Bones turns up at last and Jim’s mom hurries out with a quick kiss pressed to Jim’s cheek and, in her haste, a kiss for Spock as well.  Jim tries hard not to laugh at the floored look on Spock’s face, but . . . okay, maybe he doesn’t try _hard_.

“Hey, kid,” Bones says with a grin, ruffling Jim’s hair in a really irritating way.  Jim pointedly ignores the frank amusement in Spock’s gaze.  “Hey, Spock.  So.”  His face falls into lines of mild trepidation.  “What do you two want to do today?  Board games?  Arts and crafts?”

“This isn’t summer camp, Bones,” Jim groans, and immediately begins bouncing on the balls of his feet.  “I’ve got a better idea, anyway.”

“Aww, man.”  Bones looks over at Spock, clearly hoping for a voice of reason, but Jim knows that Spock will be too curious by now to voluntarily give up the chance to find out what, exactly, Jim plans to do.  Sure enough, he keeps silent, and Bones sighs.  “All right, out with it.  What are you plotting?”

“I’m not _plotting_ anything,” Jim protests, as innocently as he knows how.  “I just wanna go to Uncle Ed and Aunt Leah’s place.”

“That’s all?”  Bones looks surprised.  “You might as well stay here, then; there’s hardly any difference.”

“There is so!  They have . . .”  Jim pauses and looks over at Spock; the curiosity in his friend’s eyes is so bright it’s almost blinding.  “They have cool stuff over there.”

“Uh huh.”  The older boy is clearly suspicious now.  “I dunno, Jim . . .”

“If your concern is that we will attempt to leave your supervision,” Spock cut in, “I give you my assurance that we will not.”

“There you go!” Jim says excitedly.  “You’ve got Spock’s word, and Vulcans never lie.  Isn’t that right?”

“That is, indeed, correct,” Spock confirms.

Bones throws his hands up in the air.  “All right, fine.  But I swear to high heaven, if you two disappear on me again—”

“Oh, come on, Bones, that was just that one time!  Besides, we’ll be miles away from the shipyard this time.”

“Well, _now_ I feel reassured.”  The older boy sighs and opens the front door.  “Come on then, let’s go.”

They walk down the road instead of taking Bones’s speeder, kicking up dust as they go.  The cornfields they walk between have grown nearly as tall as they are, and as a small breeze kicks up the leaves brush together with a quiet rustling sound.  Jim is humming happily as the house comes into view; he lifts a hand to his mouth and lets out a loud whistle.  An instant later the air is split by loud, booming barking, and an enormous black shape bolts around the side of the house and barrels towards them.

Jim turns his head to grin at Spock in time to see the Vulcan’s eyes go as wide as dinner plates.  He takes a quick step back, then another, and then his heel catches on a rock half-buried in the dirt and with a graceless flail of his arms, falls flat on his butt.

Torn between concern and hysterical laughter, Jim manages to hold up a hand and yell, “Argus, STAY!”

Paws scrabble against the dirt, and by the time the dust settles there’s a solid black Great Dane sitting ten feet away, tail thumping happily and mouth open in a doggy grin.

Bones, who apparently hadn’t had any problems deciding whether or not to laugh, wipes at his eyes and walks up to the dog.  “Hey there, Argus,” he says through a grin, and Argus gives a single happy bark before butting his head solidly into Bones’s chest.  Bones oofs out a chuckle and begins to scratch at the dog’s ears.  “There’s a good boy.”

“It’s okay, Spock,” Jim says encouragingly, leaning down to grasp Spock’s hand and pull him up.  The tips of Spock’s ears are flushed bright green, and Jim’s glad he didn’t laugh.  “Argus is a big softie.”  Bones steps back, and though he lets out a forlorn whine at the loss of attention Argus stays put.  “See?  Watch.  Argus,” Jim says commandingly, and the dog’s ears perk up.  Jim holds out a hand.  “Shake.”  Argus obligingly lifts a paw that’s larger than Jim’s hand and lets Jim pump it up and down.  “Good boy,” Jim praises, and is knocked back two full steps when an enormous head bumps his chest in a shameless bid for more scratches.

“He is . . . quite large,” Spock says, still keeping a respectable distance back.

“As big as a _sehlat_?” Jim asks curiously.

“I believe I-Chaya was larger,” Spock says, and then in an undertone, “though not by much.”

“You wanna pet him?” Jim prompts.  “He’s harmless, really.  Just hold your hand out so he can smell you first and get to know you.”

Spock still looks hesitant, but he takes a careful step forward and slowly extends his hand.  Argus immediately shoves his nose against Spock’s palm, and Jim watches his friend visibly conceal a jolt.  After a moment a long pink tongue snakes out to lick at Spock’s fingers, prompting those pointed ears to flush green again.  Spock pulls his hand back quickly, looking to Jim for direction.

“What’s the matter,” Bones says in baffled amusement, “don’t they have dogs on Vulcan?”

“We have nothing precisely like this,” Spock says calmly, though he never takes his eyes off of Argus.

“Here.”  Jim takes Spock’s hand and places it behind the dog’s left ear.  “Just . . . scratch.  Like this.”  He scratches behind the other ear, and when Spock imitates him Argus looks like he’s in doggy heaven.  “He’s supposed to be a guard dog,” Jim explains, “but that really only works if you don’t know him already.”

“Yeah,” Bones says, reaching out to scratch beneath the enormous collar and sending the dog into paroxysms of bliss.  “His bark is worse than his bite.”

Spock’s eyes flicker down to the teeth visible beyond the lolling tongue.  “On the contrary, I am certain that a bite would be considerably worse.”

“Just another Human expression,” Jim laughs.  Spock’s eyebrow quirks, and he steps back to pull out his PADD and make an entry.  Jim watches him shrewdly, sees how Spock is back to keeping a careful distance.  “Okay, so I guess you’re not a dog person.  That’s okay.  Um.”  He looks down at the dog.  “Shoot.  He’s gonna follow us all over the place now.  Guess I should’ve introduced him last.”

“I’ve got it,” Bones says, and jogs over to the ash tree at the edge of the front yard.  He grabs a fallen stick and lets out a whistle, getting Argus’s attention at once.  Then he hauls his arm back and throws the stick as hard as he can, sending it flying end over end into the cornfield.  Argus lets out a joyful bark and breaks away from Jim in eager pursuit.  “Go in and say hi to your aunt and uncle.”  He points a cautioning finger.  “And I meant what I said about not running off.”

“We won’t!” Jim promises, and he and Spock head quickly into the house, the sound of a huge dog rustling through the corn stalks fading behind them.

“Jimmy!”  His Aunt Leah looks up from her PADD when they enter the kitchen, and a smile lights up eyes the same bright blue as his.  “I wasn’t expecting to see you today.  You here to cause trouble?” she asks, standing to pull him into a hug.

“No, Aunt Leah,” he says with as charming a grin as he can manage.  “Bones is out front playing with Argus, but he says hi.  Is Uncle Ed here?”

“No, he’s gone into town this morning.  Spock!  Boy, you’ve gotta make more noise when you walk; I didn’t even realize you were there.”  She smiles down at him but doesn’t pull him into a hug the way she did with Jim.  “I think I just might have some lemonade in the fridge if you’re thirsty.”

“Yes please, Mrs. Lanik.”

“Jimmy, when are those good manners gonna rub off on you?” she demands as she opens a cabinet to pull out glasses.  “So what _are_ you boys here for?  You’ve never come over before.  Not that I don’t love to see you both, mind, but I have some orders I have to go through to get the books in shape.”  Three glasses are filled from the large pitcher of lemonade she pulls from the refrigerator, and Spock takes his eagerly.

“We’re just here to see Argus and Libera.  Do you know where she is?”

“Oh, she’s around somewhere; probably found a nice sunny spot to nap in.  You can go find her, but you spill those drinks and I’ll have your hide.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jim grins, and tugs at Spock’s arm—the Vulcan boy’s lemonade is already almost half-gone.  “C’mon.”

“James,” Spock says between gulps, “who is Libera and why are we searching for her?”

“You’ll see.  Here, you can have mine,” he adds when he sees that Spock has finished the last of his lemonade.  He smothers a grin when Spock doesn’t even protest, just takes the nearly full glass and starts to drink. 

They wander through the house, and finally, in his aunt and uncle’s room, Jim spots her curled up at the foot of the bed.  She raises her head when they walk in, blue eyes blinking sleepily up at them.

“It is . . . a cat,” Spock says, his voice so quiet that he sounds almost reverent.

“Yeah.  Some fancy breed, I guess, but I can’t remember the name.”  Dark gray ears tilted towards them, an attractive contrast to the creamy color of the rest of her fur.  “Hey beautiful,” Jim says, and reaches down to run a hand over her head.  She trills out a meow and stands up with a stretch.

Spock needs no encouragement this time; he carefully sets his now-empty glass on the dresser and holds his hand out as he had for Argus.  Libera sniffs it delicately for a moment before rubbing the side of her head against it.  Emboldened, Spock reaches down to pick her up.  He holds her at arms-length for a moment, an approving expression on his face, before she lets out a piteous meow and he brings her in to cradle against his chest.  Almost immediately she begins to purr loudly, eyes half-closed in a look of smug satisfaction.

“ _Definitely_ a cat person,” Jim laughs.  He sits on the edge of the bed, and after a moment’s consideration Spock moves to sit next to him, careful not to jostle the cat in his arms.

“I have only seen pictures of Terran felines before,” he says, petting Libera in long strokes, much to her satisfaction.  “They are far more pleasant than I had surmised.”

“Yeah?” Jim asked, amused.  “You were expecting the spitting, clawing version?”

“Perhaps something to that effect.  The cats in Earth literature tend towards fierceness.”

“Some cats are like that.  There are four or five barn cats out back that would usually as soon scratch your skin off as look at you.  Libera here’s a housecat, though.  And spoiled, at that.”  He’s smiling, though, as he scratches beneath her chin, and her purring ratchets up several notches.  He glances up to see Spock gazing at him inquisitively.  “What?”

“Why are we here today, James?”

“Well.”  Jim looks back at the cat and focuses on stroking behind her ears until her eyes close happily.  “We’re here to see these two.  Argus and Libera.”

“Yes,” Spock says slowly.  “But I have spent the past several summers here, and this is the first time you have brought me to your aunt and uncle’s house.”  Jim can feel that dark brown gaze on him, as intense as if Spock can see right into his head.  For all Jim knows, he can.  “Is this because of I-Chaya’s death?”

“I just . . . I dunno, I guess I thought that since you didn’t have your pet anymore, you might like spending time with other ones.”  The plan, which had seemed so brilliant under the night sky, is beginning to seem like a worse idea now with Spock’s eyes boring holes in him.  “Sorry,” he mumbles.  “This was probably stupid, and insensitive and stuff, and we can go if you want—”

“James.”  When he looks up, he thinks for a moment that Spock is actually smiling.  Then he blinks, and no, of course he isn’t, but the sense of it remains the same.  “I do not wish to replace I-Chaya,” he says thoughtfully, “but I am grateful for the opportunity to become acquainted with your family’s Terran pets.”  He looks down at the cat purring contentedly in his arms, satisfaction clear.  “Most especially Libera.  I believe that you are correct; I am indeed a ‘cat person’.”

“Yeah?”  Jim grins, incredibly relieved.  “Good.  I mean, I’m glad you like them.  I figured we could go to Bones’s house later, too; he has a sugar glider you might like.”  His grin widens.   “It’s really small.”

Spock’s eyebrow quirks in that way that means he’s amused.  “Very well.”  He glances down to Libera again.  “But . . . if you wouldn’t mind, I would like to stay here for a while longer.”

“That’s cool.”  Jim settles back more comfortably on the bed, smiling at the contented look on his friend’s face.  “Enjoy this while it lasts, though,” he advises, his smile turning just a bit wicked.  “I’m gonna dig out the catnip in a minute.”

 

 


	8. Daffodil Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Because the kid who’s coming is _Vulcan_ , for heaven’s sake. There’s nothing fun about Vulcans. They’re logical and boring and, if Jim’s being completely honest, just the tiniest bit scary. And this is the boy who will be in his house, sharing his room, sleeping in his brother’s bed. How is he even supposed to start trying to make friends with someone so . . . well, alien?_

**Author's Note:** Finished BEFORE my actual self-imposed deadline, BOO-YAH!  (Yeah, I did.)  Sorry it's been so long between updates, guys.  I have no excuse, really; this was at least halfway written in a notebook already, but I had transcription fail.  Meanwhile, it's May, so you know what that means . . . CHRISTMAS IN RIVERSIDE!  Okay, let me explain how the timing issue here is totally not my fault.  I have the drawings in a rough chronological order in my head, and we've reached the point where the boys are of an age for me to talk about [Spock's ridiculous sweater](http://anubis-admirer.deviantart.com/art/Christmas-Sweater-145928018) and whatever [assorted](http://anubis-admirer.deviantart.com/art/Hot-Chocolate-148598267) [nonsense ](http://anubis-admirer.deviantart.com/art/Hot-Chocolate-Glomp-149025064)is going on here.  (Is one of my favorite things about those last two pictures the fact that Spock is in his little Vulcan dress?  Maybe.)  So, _logically_ , it was either go ahead and have Christmas funtimes at a completely ridiculous time of year or wait until late November/early December to post this next part.  See?  Logic is totally on my side. -_-

Meanwhile, you should all feel my pain.  I have a hard enough time figuring out presents for real people, much less fictional people of the future.  Sorry for the flood of cheese.

Finally, bonus points to anyone who can spot the TOS ridiculousness I've attempted to explain away.  Aaaaaaaaaand . . . GO!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Spock has never been to Earth in the winter before, and he thinks that he would be perfectly content to never do so again.  _Snow_ , he can’t help but think, is a thoroughly unpleasant form of precipitation.  As though being damp were not uncomfortable enough, the cold settles into him until it feels as though it goes down to his very bones.  He is grateful for the heating unit in their rented speeder, and has spent the last several minutes inching surreptitiously closer to the nearest vent.

There is a strange flutter of excitement in his stomach that, after careful consideration, he has decided not to suppress.  While he is gratified to have had the chance to meet his maternal grandmother, their visit during the Christmas season meant that he had been unable to visit Iowa—to visit James—as he had for the past several Earth summers.  Though they have corresponded as diligently as ever, Spock finds that he is anxious to see his friend again in the flesh.

His only regret, he thinks, is that he allowed James to secure a promise from him to play in the snow before Spock had acquired firsthand experience with it.

This is the first time they will be staying in house that James’s stepfather rents in town, and Spock suffers the illogical, though blessedly brief fear that they will not be able to find it.  Luckily, James is loitering in the snow banks in the front yard when they arrive, sprawled on his back as he flails his arms and legs in swift, controlled movements.  There are several large, irregularly-formed balls of snow nearby, the purpose of which Spock is unable to immediately fathom.  He does not have long to consider, however; the sound of their speeder has James scrambling quickly to his feet, snow stuck to his clothes and his cheeks bright pink above a wide smile.

“Hi!” he yells as soon as the doors open.  “How was your trip?  Did you have a good Christmas?  What do you think of snow, Spock?”

Against all logic, Spock finds that he actually feels warmer than he was a moment ago.  “Hello, James.”

“Here, let me help.”  James rushes forward, enviably sure-footed on the slippery terrain, to grab a bag.  “Wow, you guys brought almost as much as you do during the summer.”

“Bulky winter clothes,” Spock’s mother says with a wink.  “Thanks, sweetie.  Now let’s get inside before Spock’s ears fall off.”

“Mother, I hardly think that—”

“Mom made me promise that I’d let you warm up before dragging you out again,” James says, cutting over Spock’s confusion.  “We can get you some tea, and some blankets.  We have the heat up really high, too,” he continues, and Spock tries to copy his long, heavy steps as he clomps up the front path.  “So you should be comfortable inside, at least.”

“That is most considerate.  However—”  Spock cuts off as he stumbles a bit, but thankfully does not fall this time.

“Amanda!”  The front door opens with a welcome blast of heat as they reach the porch, and James’s mother beams at them from the entryway.  “Spock!  Frank, they’re here!” she calls back over her shoulder.  “Oh, I didn’t hear you; I’d have come out to help!”

“No need for all of us to be cold and wet,” Spock’s mother says with a laugh.  “Besides, we found an elf waiting outside to help us.”  Spock’s confusion at her statement is only compounded when James grins and rolls his eyes.

“I’m hardly an _elf_.  I’m not the one with the ears.”

Though Spock understands well enough that that was a reference to his own ears, oddly enough, the sentiment doesn’t bother him coming from James.  His friend grins at him, and Spock falls back on his default response when the specifics of James’s sense of humor elude him.  Keeping his face as blank as possible, he lifts a single eyebrow.  James dissolves into laughter, and is still doubled over when a strange man emerges from the back of the house.

“Well,” he says with what seems to be a rather nervous smile.  “Looks like I missed something.”

“Frank! There you are.”  James’s mother smiles and pulls him forward.  “Come meet our guests.  This is Amanda and her son, Spock.”

“Pleased to meet you.”  He shakes Spock’s mother’s hand, but to Spock’s relief doesn’t extend the gesture to him.  Instead he holds up his hand, fingers spread in what Spock assumes is meant to be a vague approximation of the _ta’al_.  “I’ve heard a lot about you from these two here.”

Spock is unsure how to respond, and he finds himself gripped with the sudden urge to hide behind his mother.  The reaction is completely illogical, but nevertheless the best that he can do is to go completely still, all trace of emotion falling from his face.  Frank’s hand drops, and James’s mother gives his arm a gentle squeeze.

“C’mon, Spock,” James says, tugging at his sleeve.  “Let’s go upstairs and get your stuff put away.”

As they climb the stairs, Spock hears his mother’s quiet voice behind them saying, “—a little shy around new people—”

James’s bedroom here is somewhat smaller than the one at the farmhouse, and quite a bit sparser.  That strikes Spock as odd; after all, James spends a greater portion of the year in this house, and it seems only logical that the majority of his possessions would be here instead of the other way around.  Something, however—what James would call a ‘gut feeling’ but what Spock prefers to think of as the result of empirical evidence that he has gathered on a subconscious level—tells him not to inquire on the subject.  Instead he sets his case on one of the twin beds as James strips off several damp layers of clothing.

“The sun’s gonna be down in a couple of hours,” James says, sprawling on his bed, “and Frank never lets me go out after dark.  It’s like he thinks I’m gonna get lost in the front yard or something.”  He rolls his eyes.  “We can wait until tomorrow to go out and play.  I figure I’m probably only gonna get you to go out in the snow once, so I want more time than we’d have tonight.”

“Your logic is sound.”  Spock lifts an eyebrow again.  “And your assumption is an astute one.”  James laughs, and Spock once more feels that curious warming sensation.  “I am not shy,” he says suddenly, catching himself as off-guard as James seems to be.

“Okay,” the other boy says.

“Shyness implies uncertainty and anxiety over one’s reception,” Spock attempts to explain somewhat stiffly.  “Those are Human emotions.”

James’s eyes drop as he nods.  “Is it . . .so bad, being Human?” he asks quietly, and Spock realizes too late the offense he may have given.

“I did not mean to imply—”

“No, I know you didn’t.”  James smiles at him, but it seems strained.  “But I mean, you don’t think any less of . . . of your mom for being Human, do you?”

Spock supposes that the question should likely not surprise him as much as it does.  It is enough to make him pause and carefully consider his answer before he speaks.

“No,” he says after a moment.  “Her humanity is appealing to me.”  He pauses again, searching for the best explanation.  “Vulcans, however, dedicate themselves to the pursuit of logic because of the force of our emotions.  We can not, for the sake of safety if nothing else, allow them to control us.”

“Yeah.  Okay, that makes sense.  But there’s gotta be somewhere in the middle, right?  Like, admitting you have emotions but not letting them take over?  Maybe regular Vulcans can’t, but you’re half-Human.  You could probably manage it even if they can’t.”

The unexpected phrasing catches Spock’s attention, and he wonders that he has never considered that particular point of view before now.  Never considered that his own humanity could be an asset rather than a hindrance; that perhaps, rather than making him inferior, it made him capable of things that full Vulcans were not.

“I shall have to meditate on this,” he says, and receives a nod and a grin from James.

“Cool.”  The Human boy stretches out again.  “It’s not too cold in here for you, is it?  You still have your coat on.  Should we turn the heat up some more?”

“Is it not too warm for you already?” Spock inquires, though he begins to unbutton his parka.  “It is illogical to adjust the environmental controls so dramatically, simply for my sake.”

“Yeah, well, it’s illogical for a Vulcan to play in the snow, too, but you’re gonna do it because you know it’ll make me happy.  Just like we can all wear t-shirts and stuff and keep the house a little warmer.  The whole place is wind-powered, if you’re worried about the energy we’re using.  If there’s one thing we have plenty of here in the winter, it’s wind.  Besides,” James concludes with the air of one about to deliver a winning argument, “it’s not just for you.  Your mom’s gotten used to Vulcan temperatures, so she’ll be more comfortable this way, too.”

It’s a solid touch, and Spock acknowledges it with a nod of his head.  “Very well.”  He strips out of his coat and hangs it neatly in the closet, only to turn back to find James staring at him, his face contorted in a rictus of silent laugher.  “James?” Spock asks, concerned; it looks as though his friend is having trouble breathing.  “Are you well?  Should I call for assistance?”

“No,” James says, though his voice is unsteady.  “No, I just . . . what are you _wearing_?”

Spock looks down, nonplussed.  “A sweater.”

James makes a strange, alarming choked-off noise.  “It’s got a big _reindeer_ on it!”

“My grandmother made it for me.”

“A reindeer with a big red nose.”

“Aesthetics are of minimal importance,” Spock says primly.  “It is quite warm, and thus performs the primary function of such a garment.”  He decides not to mention that he has spent the past week coming to terms with the illogic of decorating any item of clothing with a representation of a large antlered ruminant.

“Aww, c’mon,” James grins.  “Don’t get your nose all bent out of shape.”

Spock raises an eyebrow.  “I believe that I will have that cup of tea you mentioned earlier,” he says, and turns to walk sedately from the room.

“Don’t be like that,” James laughs as he scrambles up to follow after him.  “Aren’t you going to let me play in your little reindeer game?”

The rest of the day goes on in much the same manner, despite the adults’ halfhearted attempts to curtail his humor.  Most of James’s comments make no sense to Spock, but their teasing tone is nevertheless abundantly clear.  He enters the first few into his PADD so that he can look up their meanings later.  After a time, however, he abandons even that in favor of fully ignoring his friend, and James eventually either loses interest or runs out of reindeer jokes.  It is intriguing, Spock thinks, that despite his usual displeasure in being teased, he does not seem to mind the behavior when it comes from James.  Perhaps he will mention the disparity to his mother on their trip back to Vulcan.  She may be able to offer insight.

At James’s unexpectedly adamant demand they have delayed their planned gift exchange until the next night, and they are preparing to choose a game for the evening when James’s mother says something decidedly odd.

“Jimmy,” she asks just as Spock is opening the box where the chess pieces are stored, “have you used your lamp today?”

“Um.”  James bites briefly at his lip.  “I sort of forgot.”

“Well, you can ‘sort of’ go upstairs and do it right now, then.”

“But we’re just about to start our game!  I can just use it longer tomorrow.”

“Not a chance, buddy,” Frank speaks up.  “We had a deal, right?”

To Spock’s surprise, the enthusiastic resistance he expects never materializes.  Instead James’s eyes dart to his mother so quickly that Spock could almost believe he imagined it—it’s a terrible habit that he falls into in James’s company—and grumbles something that sounds more or less like agreement.  He clambers to his feet and his mother, already braced for battle, is clearly just as surprised as Spock is.

“Well . . .”  She falters, at a loss now that she is not required to exert maternal authority over her recalcitrant son.  “Why don’t you boys take your game upstairs?” she suggests after a moment, and James brightens slightly.

“Okay.  C’mon, Spock.”

Curious and willing to obblige, Spock follows his friend up the stairs, game board and pieces clutched to his chest.  “James?” he says quietly, once he is certain they have passed the bounds of Human hearing.  “What deal did you strike with your stepfather?”

James glances back nervously, clearly still afraid of being overheard.  “I skipped for a week while Mom was gone.  He promised not to tell her if I promised not to miss a day again.”  They reach James’s bedroom and he shrugs.  “Wasn’t all selfless; she’d have been pissed at him, too, for not noticing for so long.”

“Then it was a mutually beneficial arrangement,” Spock says.  James grins.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“James?”

“Yeah?”

“What precisely did you skip?”

“My lamp treatments.”  He drags a large standing lamp towards the center of the room and gestures for Spock to set the board beneath it.  “I’ve got SAD—that’s Seasonal Affective Disorder.  It means I don’t produce enough vitamin D on my own, so when there’s less sun during the winter I get really tired and bummed out and I just hate everything.  I have to sit under this thing for a while every day to keep that from happening.”

Spock kneels in front of the board and begins to set up the pieces.  “Are there not supplements that would be more efficient?”

“Yeah; that’s what most of the people in Starfleet take when they’re up in space.  But I’m allergic.”  He rolls his eyes and adjusts the angle on the lamp’s neck.  “Figures.  But Dr. Deshmukh says it’s not that uncommon an allergy, so every starship has light booths in their medbays, too.” 

“That is fortunate.”

“Yeah.”  James flips the switch and settles across from Spock, bright light spilling down around him.  He glances down at the board; Spock has given him white, and his fingers hover hesitantly over the pieces.  “Remember, I only just learned how to play.”

“I will endeavor to . . . I believe the phrase is ‘go easy on you’?”

James frowns.  “But don’t just let me win, okay?  I hate that.”

Spock blinks.  “What would be the logic in that?  Your game would never improve that way.”

“Good.  Just so long as that’s clear.”  James studies the board for a moment before he moves a pawn, and the game begins.

Spock wins the first game, and the second as well.  Every so often James will ask him to explain a move he’s made, and in the interest of fair play Spock does his best to take him through the basic elements of strategy.  As their games progress, however, James’s questions begin to drop off, and by the time his mother comes in to insist they turn out the lights and go to bed, they have stopped completely.

They’ve switched places after the time allotted for James’s treatment, and Spock is pleasantly warm by the time he climbs into bed.  Worn out from the final leg of their trip and the better part of a day spent in James’s company, he is asleep almost immediately.  When he wakes it is still dark, his time sense tells him that he has only slept for three point four hours, and there is a cool body nestled in close to his.

“James?” he inquires softly, and feels his friend shift against the sheets.

“Hey, Spock.  I, um . . . I had that dream again.”

Concern trickles through Spock’s mind.  “About the fungus?”

“Don’t,” James moans, “don’t talk about it.  Just . . . can I sleep with you tonight?”

“I have never had any objections to you doing so in the past,” Spock reminds him, and feels James burrow in closer.  The Human boy is usually so brave.  Fearless, even.  It is unsettling for Spock to see him frightened.  He knows that it is illogical to wish for things to be different, but still . . . “I would take them from you if I could,” he says quietly.

“I know,” James murmurs sleepily.  “Thanks.”

“James?”

“Hmm?”

“I will be right here, should you have that dream again.”

“Thanks, Spock.”

They both sleep through the night, however, and when they wake in the morning James seems to have forgotten about his terror in the dark.  He is practically humming with excitement, barely willing to take the time for breakfast before dragging Spock outside.  It is the first time Spock has known James to value anything before food, and he is both gratified to be the cause of such anticipation and helplessly diverted by it.  He notes with amusement James’s impatience as Spock piles on layer after careful layer of protective clothing.  When he finally deems himself sufficiently insulated against the cold, Spock nods and James grabs his gloved hand in one of his, tugging him out the front door with surprising force.

“Did you like Vancouver?” James wants to know as he immediately begins to push one of the large balls of snow towards another.  Unsure of what his friend’s intent may be, Spock decides that his best option is to simply observe.

“I was grateful for the opportunity to meet and converse with my maternal grandmother, and for the opportunity to witness a traditional Terran Christmas.”  He pauses, calculating the odds of James’s response before lifting an eyebrow.  “It was also significantly warmer in Vancouver.”

James’s laugh, he notes in satisfaction, makes the cold seeping through to his skin entirely worthwhile.

As James anticipated, they spend the rest of the day outside in the snow, going inside for lunch and warm drinks only when Spock promises to leave the house again after they finish.  And to his surprise, Spock finds that snow isn't entirely without redeeming qualities after all.  He is fascinated by James’s facility in shaping and manipulating the substance, and finds himself pulled along with decreasing reluctance into building what Jim refers to as a ‘snowVulcan’.  Once they have finished, his customary reticence has faded enough to have him fashioning a snow _sehlat_ to accompany the lone figure while James sets about constructing a simplified model of the Sol system several feet away.  It is an endeavor of which Spock heartily approves until James grins in a most unsettling manner, dips down, and sends Venus hurtling into Spock’s shoulder.

Spock has studied predator/prey relations enough to know that he can not allow James’s attack to go unchecked, and quickly returns fire with Neptune, which is located conveniently close to his left foot.

Though James has considerably greater experience and confidence in navigating over the slippery ground, Spock can easily manipulate far larger pieces of ammunition, and their fight ends in a stalemate with both of them fallen weary on the ground.  Spock determines that for all its fascinating qualities, snow is still first and foremost wet and very, very cold.

By the time they finally straggle their way inside again, their faces are as brightly colored as they had been two summers ago when their mothers had fussed and fretted over burned skin.  Spock is bundled into a hot bath, which he submits to without complaint, and he is settled in front of a real fire in the hearth with blankets and hot tea as their gift exchange begins.

Their parents offer their gifts first.  A vase of blown glass for James’s mother and Frank, formed from the sands of Vulcan; for Spock’s mother, a bottle of chocolate-flavored liqueur that makes her laugh in a way that Spock does not understand.  Spock receives a subscription to one of Starfleet’s top scientific journals, and his own mother has given James a soft black _koma_ with both the Starfleet and IDIC logos embroidered around the collar in gold thread.

Finally, James half-crawls beneath the large conifer tree in the corner and retrieves a small, brightly-wrapped box.  He thrusts it into Spock’s hands and sits back, chewing nervously at the nail on his right thumb as Spock opens the gift.  What he unearths is a heavy globe atop a small pedestal, a tiny village nestled among white-tipped trees beneath the glass.

“Shake it,” James prompts, and Spock does so, surprised when his movements send a flurry of white flakes swirling through the liquid that he now realizes fills the globe.  “It’s a snow globe.”  James offers a crooked grin and scratches at the back of his head.  “So you can enjoy the, um, _aesthetic properties_ of snow without having to go out in it again.  I figured if I gave it to you last night you wouldn’t appreciate it as much.”

“It is most thoughtful.”  Spock sets the gift carefully onto the floor in front of him, eyes locked on the slowing tumble of flakes as he fights the urge to send them flying all over again.  He finally lifts his gaze to his friend and permits the slightest of smiles at the corners of his mouth.  “And highly appropriate.  Thank you, James.”

“You’re welcome,” James beams, and his eyes dart to the slim package that is sitting next to Spock’s knee.  “Is that mine?”

“Indeed.”  Spock hands it over, watching with unceasing fascination at the way James enthusiastically tears into the thin paper that covers the gift.  No sooner is it unwrapped, however, than Spock’s mother lets out a heartfelt groan.

“Spock, you _didn’t._ ”

“It is a copy of my textbook on advanced computer programming,” Spock says, with what is definitely not a faint hint of defensiveness in his voice.  Vulcans do not get defensive, most especially about a decision that was entirely logical.

“You got him a _textbook_ for a Christmas present.”  Spock’s mother looks as though she is having difficulty finding the proper words to properly communicate her dismay.

“James has expressed displeasure with the speed of his own studies,” Spock points out, “and marked interest in those of students of a similar age group on Vulcan.  Therefore, I—”

“Oh man, you even put notes in the margins here!” James exclaims, effectively derailing the argument.  “This is great!  Man, this is so much cooler than the stuff we have to study.”  His eyes are bright when they meet Spock’s, and his smile stretches wide across his face.  “Can you walk me through some of the beginning stuff while you’re here?”

“I would be pleased to assist in your education,” Spock says with a nod, his tone now as free from any trace of smugness as his earlier tone was of defensiveness.  “Merry Christmas, James.”

“Merry Christmas.”  James is still smiling, but the expression fades from his face to be replaced with hopeful curiosity when his gaze falls on the space beneath the tree.  “Hey, there’s still a present left.”

“Oh!”  Frank rises and pulls the soft, lumpy package out from where it had been pushed back against the wall.  “I almost forgot about this.  My mom sent it for you, Jim.  It just arrived yesterday, so I figured I’d wait and have you open it with everything else tonight.”

James looks mildly stunned by the package now sitting across his knees.  “Your mom sent me something?”

“Yeah.”  Frank regains his seat next to James’s mother looking slightly uncertain.  “She said she’s sorry she didn’t send you anything last year; apparently it’s taken her a while to get this done.”

“Done?”  James flicks a curious glance his way.  “What is it?”

“No idea,” Frank shrugs.  “She signed your mom and me up for a cheese-of-the-month club.  Open it and find out.”

“You’ll have to write her a nice thank-you letter, Jim,” James’s mother says as he begins to remove the wrapping.  “No putting it off, understand?”

“Yeah,” James mutters in a way that makes Spock dubious as to whether or not he paid any attention to what his mother just said.  He flings the last of the paper aside, and as he holds up the contents the room explodes into a riot of laughter.

“Oh boy,” Frank gasps out after a moment.  “This . . . this is your first lesson in karma, Jimmy.”

“Lord,” James’s mother giggles.  “I have to get my camera.  Spock—”  She breaks off on another helpless laugh.

“I’ll go get it,” Spock’s mother says when it looks as though her friend will be unable to complete her sentence, and both women stagger up and out of the room.

James submits with reluctant good grace, and as they stand together in front of the tree Spock accepts the likelihood that the pictures that James’s mother is taking will almost certainly reveal a distinctly un-Vulcanlike amusement on his face.  He does not truly believe that he can be blamed for that, however.  While his sweater might sport a thoroughly illogical reindeer, he feels that it is infinitely superior to the large rosy-cheeked, bearded face that adorns his friend’s.

The adults are still laughing by the time Spock and James go upstairs to bed.

Over the next several days, they manage to form a routine.  In the mornings Spock takes James through the first chapters of his programming textbook.  In the afternoons, Spock sees to his own studies while James almost always opts to spend a few hours playing outside, sometimes by himself and sometimes with several of the neighborhood children.  Despite his original intent, Spock is occasionally convinced to join him, though only for short periods of time and only on James’s solemn word that he will not be subject to any sort of snow-based assault.

It is Leonard’s bad luck that the day he is called over to watch them is the day when their routine is knocked off its axis.

It begins to snow again in the morning; by early afternoon the lazy fall of fat flakes has grown into a near-blizzard.  James had declined Spock’s tutoring, leaving the Vulcan free to begin his studies significantly earlier than usual, and by the time he has finished and James is eager to go outside the snowfall is so heavy that Leonard categorically forbids it.  James has expressed boredom with all of the games that they have played through during the long nights, and instead appears to have decided to entertain himself by bothering the older boy.

“I swear, Jim,” Leonard bursts out finally, “this is why I hate sitting for you in the winter!”

“But we’re _bored_ , Bones!” James whines, flopping dejectedly onto the couch and almost immediately sliding to the floor.  “There’s nothing to do.”

“There’s tons to do,” Leonard counters, “you’re just too antsy to bother with any of it.”  Spock makes a quiet note on his PADD.  Leonard closes his textbook with a sigh.  “How about hide and seek?  You guys haven’t played that yet, have you?”

James sends him a withering look.  “Hide and seek is a little kids’ game.”

“And you’re what, collecting a pension?  Up.”  Leonard prods him with his foot, and James grumbles but rises to his feet.  “All right.  I agreed to sit for you on the condition that you don’t bug me too much.  I have exams when I go back to school after the break, and I need to study.  So you,” he says, grabbing James by the shoulders and twisting him to face the wall, “are going to count.  Spock, you go hide somewhere.  You have until he gets to fifty.”  James starts to count, and when Spock simply stands there uncertainly, Leonard makes a shooing motion with one hand.  “Go on, hide!”

Uncertain as to the point of this game but willing to comply for the moment, Spock finds a small space concealed beneath the stairs and curls up there.  He counts down with James in his head; it takes only ten point three seconds after he reaches fifty for James to poke his head around the corner of his hiding place and roll his eyes.

“Wow, you suck at this game.  You go in there and count and I’ll show you how it’s done.”

Spock bristles slightly, but marches into the other room without a word.  Leonard has reopened his textbook and is making occasional notes on his PADD; though Spock is reluctant to disturb him he begins to count aloud so that the older boy may be assured that he is not cheating.  When he finishes, he realizes quickly that he has no idea where to begin looking.  There must be dozens of appropriate spots around the house, all of which James would have knowledge of while Spock would not.  Logically, then, one room was as good to start in as another, and approximately twenty point seven four seconds later Spock finds James curled up on the floor of his mother’s closet.  He raises an eyebrow as James looks up at him, eyes wide in astonishment.

“Yes,” Spock says dryly.  “I can see that you are far more skilled at this game than I.”

James’s surprise turns to a scowl and he pushes his way past Spock to clatter down the stairs and back to the appointed counting spot.

They spend five turns apiece in much the same manner until finally James flings himself onto his bed with a groan.  “This game is no fun,” he grumbles as Spock slides out from beneath the other bed.  “You’re too easy to find.”

Another flare of irritation flashes through Spock.  “Your choices in hiding places have been far from inspired themselves,” he responds, and James bounces upright with a glare.

“It takes Frank hours to find me when I want to hide from him,” he shoots back.  “It’s just you with your freaky Vulcan senses—”  He cuts off suddenly, his frown turning from angry to curious in a heartbeat.  “What?”

“I have a theory,” Spock says, thinking furiously.  “Go downstairs and count again.”

“No way.”  James crosses his arms sullenly.  “I counted last time.”

“If you like,” Spock says, raising an eyebrow and pleased when James’s lips twitch minutely, “I can count and we can revisit my theory two minutes from now.”

James rolls his eyes but says, “Fine,” and heads downstairs. 

Spock waits until he is certain James has begun counting and hurries to the bathroom.  He opens the cupboard beneath the sink and crawls inside before he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and throws up every mental shield he can manage.

This time, James searches for nearly five minutes before Spock lowers his shields again; only seconds later the cupboard door is opened and James peers inside.  “Huh,” he says, stepping back so that Spock can crawl out.  “That’s a good one.  I don’t think I could fit in there.”  His eyes fix on Spock, curious and measuring.  “C’mon, lets go get something to drink and you can tell me about your theory.”

Wary of rousing Leonard from his studies again, James programs the replicator himself, and they carry their mugs quietly back up the stairs to their shared bedroom.  They settle on James’s bed and Spock sniffs his drink curiously.

“It’s hot chocolate,” James explains.  “I noticed your mom never lets you have any, but she doesn’t have to know, right?”

Spock lets his eyes warm, understanding the peace offering that James has provided.  “Indeed.”  He takes a careful sip, pleased as the bittersweet flavor spreads through his mouth.  “It is quite good.”

“So what’s this theory you have?” James asks, staring at his own mug.  “Is it bad?  It’s bad, isn’t it?”

“It is . . .”  Spock takes another drink as he searches for the correct word.  “Unexpected,” he says at last.  “But not necessarily disagreeable.”  He hesitates again, uncertain how James will react.  “I theorize that our minds may be . . . linked.”

“Linked?”  James blinks at him in the way he does when he does not quite understand.  “What does that mean?”

Spock struggles again with an explanation for something that he does not entirely understand himself.  “As you know, Vulcans are telepathic.  We form mental bonds with our parents and other family members; I have a weak bond with every member of my clan, in fact.  Do you remember when our minds touched, James?”

“Of course I do.”  James takes a slow, thoughtful drink, and Spock echoes his action.  “So you think, what?  That we linked up then?”

“It would explain why it was so easy for us to find each other during our game,” Spock points out.  “You took significantly longer when I raised my mental shields.”

“But a link like that—would it even be possible between a Vulcan and a Human?”

“I share a parental link with my mother,” Spock points out.  “While I can not say if it is as strong as it would be if she were Vulcan rather than Human, it is fully functional.  Such a link between us, then, would logically seem to be a possibility.  It would also go a fair way towards accounting for . . .”

“How we were fighting?” James asks sheepishly.  “Yeah, it would make sense if my crappy mood was bleeding through to you.”  He raises his mug a second too late to hide his grin.  “I’ve never heard you get _snippy_ before.”

“Vulcans do not get _snippy_ ,” Spock says, though his usual superior tone is blunted by the warmth that is spreading through him.  It is both like and unlike what he has experienced in James’s presence before, and he finds that it is not at all unpleasant.  He takes another drink, frowning when he realizes that his mug is nearly empty.

“What about half-Vulcans?” James asks with a grin, nudging Spock’s knee with his foot.  “Can _they_ get snippy?”

“Perhaps when they have an illogical Human influencing their thoughts.”

James’s grin fades.  “Is it going to be a problem?  Do we have to get someone to undo it or something?”

Spock hesitates, but draining the last of his drink bolsters his courage.  “I believe that it would be possible to have the link severed.”  The thought tugs his mouth down at the edges.  Suddenly quite warm, he struggles his way out of his sweater, his voice muffled as he does so.  “However, if you would not be—”  Free at last, he tosses the sweater aside and smoothes down his hair under James’s bemused gaze.  “If you would not be averse to the thought,” he begins again, “I have no objections to letting it remain.”  His cheeks heat, and he ducks his head to hide the smile that he can not quite contain.  “I find that I enjoy the idea of being connected in such a way to . . . to my best friend,” he finishes in a rush.

There is a moment of silence, and then James muses, “A family bond, huh?”  Spock looks up to find a smile spreading across his friend’s face.  “So . . . like brothers?”

“Like and unlike,” Spock says.  “But yes, if it pleases you to think of it in such a way.  _T’nash-veh sa-kai_ , James.”

“ _T’nash-veh sa-kai_ ,” James repeats with a smile.  “Spock.”

Spock has risen to his knees before he knows it, his arms flung around James’s shoulders and his cheek pressed to a cooler Human one.  Some part of him is shocked at his own actions, but the vast majority of him can not be bothered to care.  He is warm, and content, and James is not angry with him anymore.

“You two have been quiet for entirely too long for—woah.”  Leonard’s voice coming from the doorway is still not enough to move Spock from his stranglehold on his friend.  “Jim, what the _hell_ did you do to him?  And what . . . oh, no.  No, that had _better_ not be chocolate that I see in those mugs.”

“Um, Spock?” James murmurs.  “I think we might be in trouble anyway.”

But his arms wrap around Spock’s shoulders nevertheless, and the thrum of his mind is an echo of Spock’s own happiness.

 

 

 


	9. Daffodil Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Because the kid who’s coming is _Vulcan_ , for heaven’s sake. There’s nothing fun about Vulcans. They’re logical and boring and, if Jim’s being completely honest, just the tiniest bit scary. And this is the boy who will be in his house, sharing his room, sleeping in his brother’s bed. How is he even supposed to start trying to make friends with someone so . . . well, alien?_

**Author's Note:** Soooooo . . . um . . . this part was necessary?  :erm: A bit of a departure here from the pure tooth-rotting fluff I've had going on in this story so far.  Sadly, no adorable drawings to go with it, either.  Some really minor spoilers for the movie, as one of the scenes here is lifted directly from the screen (with one or two minor alterations to fit in with this continuity).  More fluff to come in the next part, I promise!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jim is stretched out on his stomach on the living room floor, pretending to work on his history homework as he composes a letter to Spock. His headphones block out the sounds of his mom and Frank talking with some kind of Vulcan concert he found on the network. It’s weird, and most of the instruments make sounds like he’s never heard before, but he likes it. He thinks he likes it. It reminds him of Spock, anyway, so he likes it for that if nothing else.

He wishes he could go to Vulcan. It’s supposed to be hot and hard to breathe and he guesses there probably wouldn’t be much that’s fun to do, but he wants to see it. Jim’s pretty sure that Spock’s learned even more than he lets on during his summers on Earth; Jim wants to learn about Vulcan that way. He’d also like to meet Spock’s classmates, he thinks darkly, and see if they talked so big when there were two of them instead of Spock all on his own.

Jim deletes the _sehlat_ he’s doodled in the margin of his letter. He can’t really draw, anyway.

He glances up to see his mom and Frank deep in what looks like an intense conversation, and considers killing the volume on his concert so that he can eavesdrop. A moment later, though, Frank reaches out to cup her face in one large hand, and his mom smiles slow and warm. Jim rolls his eyes. It’s Jim’s mom’s last day before she ships out; time, he thinks, for the mushiness to begin. Right on schedule.

Jim clambers to his feet, gathering his PADD and books, and tugs out his headphones so that he can say goodnight. He’d rather not stick around to watch them make cow eyes at each other.

His mom holds on tight when he hugs her. It almost hurts, but at least it keeps him from having to see her face. He hates these good-byes, hates how much he can see her hurting whenever she thinks of him and space at the same time. For a brief, fierce moment he wishes it could just be summer all the time; there’d never be school, and Spock would always be there, and his mom wouldn’t wince like it hurt her to look at him.

“It’s a short run this time, Jimmy,” she says, her chin still buried in the crook of his neck. “I’ll even be able to stop back here for a while before the next one. You probably won’t even have time to miss me.”

“’Kay,” he mutters, burying his face in her hair in turn.

“Hey.” She pulls away at last, wearing what he thinks of as her Brave Smile. “You be good, okay?” Her face changes then, and her eyes seem almost to sparkle. “There’s a surprise coming; it’ll probably get here while I’m gone. I think you’ll like it.”

Jim shifts his weight suspiciously. “What sort of a surprise?”

“Not much of one if I told you.” She reaches out to ruffle his hair. “You can have Frank take you in for a trim while I’m gone, too,” she says, and he ducks back out of reach.

“I like it longer,” he says defiantly, and she rolls her eyes.

He lies in bed that night, the concert playing through his headphones on endless loop. He finds himself thinking of the ship his mother is assigned to this time, the _USS Ariel_. He’s never seen any of her ships himself, only holos and schematics. She always says that it’s because she belongs to one of Starfleet’s floating Engineering teams; she’s never assigned to a single ship for more than a few months at a time, however long it takes her team to fix whatever it is that needs fixing. Since she’s always hopping from ship to ship, she says, none of them really feel like _hers_. There’s no need, therefore, for Jim to see any particular ship.

Personally, Jim suspects it’s more to do with her just not wanting him to go out in space.

He’s never told her about how he wants more than anything to join Starfleet when he’s old enough, to go out among the stars and explore, discover things. Maybe even save people, like his dad did. Jim thinks she ought to understand; she ought to, anyway, better than anyone. She knows how the wanting gets inside of you and won’t get out again, how it can pull you away from everything else you love because it’s just that strong. Jim figures that space got into his blood back when he was born. It’s been calling him back out ever since.

But still, he doesn’t tell her. He doesn’t know if her understanding would be greater than her fear, and he doesn’t want to have to choose someday between his dream and his family.

He drifts off to sleep with Vulcan music in his ears, and dreams of a starship of his own.

The next week is unremarkable. Jim hands in a report on binary stars. He forgets that he’s allergic to walnuts and misses the second half of school on the day he trades his lunch for Johnny’s. The community pool is still open, and he has plans to meet his friends there after school on Friday; he’s running home for his swimsuit when he sees the car.

It’s one of the most beautiful things he’s ever seen, red and sleek and shiny. It has actual wheels on it instead of being retrofitted with engines or antigrav boosters. The top is fabric and looks like it folds down.

It’s a two-seater symphony of engineering, and it’s sitting in his driveway.

He doesn’t have to ask to know that this is the surprise his mom had mentioned. It looks like her, like something she’d love. Bright, meticulously cared for. Perfect. He’ll bet the engine _purrs_ , the way it does in the historical vids. He wonders how fast it goes.

Man, the guys are going to be _insane_ jealous.

Jim bolts for the house as soon as he can tear his eyes away, calling out for Frank as he goes. He wants to take it out, to put it through its paces as his mom would say. Maybe Frank will even drive him down to the pool; Jim was going to walk, it’s not far, but this is better, _so_ much better. Frank steps out onto the porch before Jim can even reach it, grinning like he’s just played the best joke ever.

“Is it ours?” Jim bursts out. His eyes feel like they’re going to fall right out of his head, and he’s all but bouncing in place. “It is, isn’t it? It’s what Mom was talking about, right?”

Frank laughs and starts down the steps. “Yeah, it is,” he says, and Jim lets out a joyous whoop. “You like it?”

“It’s . . . it’s . . .” Jim can’t think of any way to describe just _how cool_ it is without using words he’s not supposed to know, so he just turns back to the car. “How fast does it go?” he asks, making Frank laugh again.

“Fast,” is all he says, but when Jim glances over there’s a shine in his eyes that sends shivers of anticipation down Jim’s spine. “The engine’s been reworked a little; it used to run on oil and gasoline, but it’s impossible to find those these days. It’s all hydrogen-powered now. Still not exactly something you can get at the corner store, but your mom has a ‘Fleet contact who’s willing to hook her up at a decent price.”

“I’ve never worked on a hydrogen engine before,” Jim says, suddenly feeling just the tiniest bit worried, but Frank just nods and rests a hand on Jim’s shoulder.

“Me neither. But between you, me and your mom we’ll have it figured out in no time. Well.” He gives a good-natured roll of his eyes. “You and I should probably just stand back while Winona takes a look, and then do exactly what she tells us to.”

Jim just nods. That really is probably the best plan. He’s never known his mom to meet a machine she couldn’t dismantle and put back together in better shape than ever. She’s going to have a field day with this; he can hardly wait to see her face the first time she opens up the hood. Something occurs to him suddenly at the thought, something that has until that moment been buried beneath sleek lines and shiny red paint.

“Does this mean we can’t go to San Francisco after all?” he asks hesitantly.

They’ve been planning it for months; his mom’s old Academy advisor is retiring, and after an impressive amount of begging on Jim’s part she agreed to take him with her to check out the Engineering department. The trip isn’t a terribly expensive one, but according to his mom they don’t have a lot of disposable income just sitting around. He’s still trying to decide whether or not the car makes up for the disappointment of missing out on the trip when he realizes that Frank is looking at him in surprise.

“No, kid, the trip’s still on.” He scratches at his jaw with one finger the way he does when he’s caught off-guard. “I figured your mom would’ve told you . . . but I guess she wanted the car to be a surprise, right? Makes sense, I guess,” he says under his breath, and shrugs. “Well, I can’t imagine she’d be upset if I told you now. She finally cleared out all that stuff in the farmhouse attic a couple of weeks ago. Most of it was junk, but there were some old baseball holochips and cards in there that were kind of valuable. Made enough off of them to afford—Jim! What the— _Jim_!”

He can barely hear Frank shouting after him. He’s running, cutting across yards and hopping a fence to tear through back lots when he hears heavy footsteps running after him. Frank’s legs are longer, but he won’t follow the way Jim is going.

Jim can’t seem to get his breath, and it has nothing to do with how he’s full-out sprinting down back streets and hurling himself over every obstacle he comes across. It’s not true. Frank was lying, Jim’s mom wouldn’t, not without telling him, she wouldn’t she wouldn’t she _wouldn’t_.

Jim makes it a dozen blocks, to the very edge of downtown, when he has to stop running. His heart is pounding so hard he’s almost worried it might explode or something, and his legs feel like jelly. He keeps walking, though, as fast as he can. There’s still a long way left to go, but he doesn’t care. He’s not stopping, not until he sees—

“Jimmy!” His heart tries to seize in his chest at the sound of his name, but when Jim turns it’s to see Mr. Clark walking towards him, a bag from the market held aloft in one arm. “How’re you doin’, boy?” he asks with a smile and a clap on Jim’s shoulder that nearly sends him sprawling. “Hardly ever see you except for the summers these days. Mary was just sayin’ the other day how quiet it was without you to liven things up. Ought to stop by sometime; she’d love to see you.”

Jim swallows hard as he tries not to pant too noticeably. He eyes the bag that Mr. Clark’s holding; he can just make out the top of a container of ice cream at the top. “Are you going home now?” he asks abruptly, and Mr. Clark blinks at him in surprise.

“Sure am,” he says easily enough. “My turn to cook tonight; gotta get home and get the food started.”

“Can you give me a ride?”

“I could do that, sure.” Mr. Clark’s words are slow, his eyes thoughtful. “Your house isn’t too far from here though, is it?”

“Not here,” Jim says with a sharp shake of his head. “Out at the farm.” He summons up what he hopes is a sheepish smile and not the grimace that wants to stretch across his face. “I need to get something from the house.”

“All right then. C’mon, I’m parked right over here. You wanna call your stepdaddy, ask if you can stay for supper? I’m fixin’ barbecued ribs; a damn sight better than anything you’ll be getting out of that replicator of yours.”

“Maybe,” Jim says noncommittally, and climbs quickly into the skimmer that Mr. Clark always takes for quick trips to town. “’m not very hungry,” he mutters as they start to speed away.

“Not getting’ sick, are you?” Mr. Clark asks in concern.

Jim just shakes his head, and they spend the rest of the ride in silence. Jim’s heart is still pounding in his ears, drowning out any thoughts that try to surface. When they reach the farmhouse he jumps down from the skimmer with a muttered thanks and dashes for the front door, stopping only to grab the key that’s hidden under one of the porch’s loose floorboards.

He nearly falls on the stairs trying to take them too fast, but he’s up again and heading for his room to grab a chair. The attic door opens almost too easily, the first definite sign that someone’s been there since the last time he went up. Jim pauses for a moment at the bottom of the ladder, suddenly afraid to go up. But Kirks aren’t cowards, and he clambers up before he can talk himself out of it.

The bottom seems to drop out of his stomach as he scrambles to his feet in the empty space. Without the boxes and crates piled up he can see that it’s a decently sized room beneath the sloping roof, small windows at the front and back letting in the afternoon sun. He takes a shaky step forward and his feet kick up dust that dances and swirls in the yellow light. There are patches of clean floor where the boxes used to rest, and footprints disturbing the thick dust that’s settled everywhere else.

Jim’s legs give out suddenly and he lands hard on his bottom. It makes a good excuse for the tears that are stinging at his eyes, an excuse beyond the horrible _emptiness_ of the room, the missing pieces that he could sift through and examine.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there. It can’t be too long; the light doesn’t seem to have changed much by the time he hears footsteps below and rises to his feet. He scrubs at his face just before the ladder creaks and Frank climbs up into the attic. Frank’s face goes from worried to relieved to furious in the span of about five seconds. Impressive.

“What the _hell_ were you thinking, Jim?” he demands angrily. He seems taller than ever under the low ceilings, looming over Jim with his eyes blazing. “Don’t you _ever_ run off like that again. Do you hear me? I didn’t know where you were, what you were doing, if you were safe . . . thank God Mr. Clark called me or I’d still be looking for you!”

“How could you _do_ that?” Jim shouts, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, and Frank’s words stumble to a halt. “You just came up here and got rid of _everything_! That was my dad’s stuff! And you just tossed it out like trash, or sold it and bought that _stupid_ car—”

“Jim.” Frank looks almost lost, and he makes an aborted movement like he’s going to reach out. Jim snarls and backs up a step, though, and Frank’s hands drop back down. “Your mom held on to all that stuff for years. She couldn’t even come up here, do you know that? It hurt her to have it here, to have that constant reminder of your dad literally hanging over her head every day. Just because it’s gone doesn’t mean she’s forgotten him. It just means that it’s not hurting her anymore.”

“Well that’s just great for _you_ , isn’t it?” Jim spits. “Now you don’t have to try to compete with a ghost anymore. You were probably the one who convinced her to sell that stuff just so you wouldn’t have to remember that she loved my dad more than you.”

“That’s enough, Jim,” Frank warns.

Jim’s jaw tightens as tears threaten again. “Whatever,” he snarls, and heads for the ladder. Frank catches his arm as he storms past, but Jim jerks free so fiercely he feels something strain in his shoulder. “Let _go_!” he yells. “You’re not my dad, and you’re never going to be! Just leave me alone!”

He runs out before he can get too good a look at Frank’s face, jumping the rest of the way once he’s halfway down the ladder. Jim’s footsteps sound loud in the empty house as he clatters down the stairs and bursts outside. He doesn’t hear Frank behind him, and he’s a little surprised by that until he realizes that he has no way to get back home unless he wants to walk. He’s not going to ask Mr. Clark for a ride again, that’s for sure, not after he ratted Jim out. He left his bike at the house when he ran off, so he doesn’t even have that. No, he’s stranded there unless he rides back with Frank.

The car is parked in front of the house, and Jim marches over to glare at it. He can’t believe he thought it was cool just an hour ago. He hates it now that he knows where it came from, what it cost. Sure, he might not have ever told his mom that he knew about his dad’s collection, never let on that he’d started one of his own because it almost felt like something they were doing together. But she hadn’t even mentioned that she was getting rid of it. Any of it. All the little bits and pieces of his father’s life, first banished to the attic and then sent away entirely, and she hadn’t even _mentioned_. She never talked about his dad, not to him. It was like she’d rather pretend he hadn’t even existed.

Jim is still fuming when he sees that Frank left the key in the ignition.

He’s not really thinking. Just acting. He’s behind the wheel before he really knows what he’s doing, and Jim might not know much about vintage engines but he knows plenty about gearshifts and accelerators, and the rest he can work out on the fly. The sounds the car makes are every bit as satisfying as he’d imagined, the rumble of the engine and the squealing crunch of the tires as he speeds away. He can just make out Frank’s figure in the rearview mirror, tearing out of the house and frantically waving his arms. Yelling, probably, Jim thinks, and fear mixes with exhilaration in a way he’s never felt before.

He doesn’t have a plan, not really. But the car is fast and loud and his feet just barely reach the pedals, and when he imagines the look on Frank’s face he almost wants to laugh. The dirt roads are empty except for the cloud of dust that springs to life behind him. Jim feels like a vid star, like he’s racing for his life or to save the girl. He wants to keep going forever.

The little melody that signals an incoming call fills the air as the screen set in the dashboard lights up, and despite the sudden jolt of adrenaline that hits him at the sound, Jim automatically reaches out to answer.

“Are you out of your mind?” Frank’s voice is angrier than Jim’s ever heard it, and his heart leaps up into his throat. “That car’s an antique,” he goes on without waiting for an answer. “You think you can get away with this just ‘cause your mother’s off-planet? You get your ass back home _now_.”

There’s more, but Jim doesn’t hear it, doesn’t hear anything but his own racing heartbeat and the combined roars of the engine and wheels of the car. His hand is shaking as he reaches out to hit ‘off’ on the screen. Right below that is the control to turn on the music; when he hits it a song automatically starts, something loud with strong, harsh guitars. His hand keeps moving without his conscious knowledge, up to the latch that holds the top in place.

It’s predictable, really. When the top lifts the wind catches the curve of it, and the force is too strong for the flimsy thing to withstand. With an ominous sound the top rips free, crashing to the ground behind him. There’s a moment of panic, then the helpless giddiness of rebellion.

Jim lets out a triumphant yell and pushes the car even faster.

He’s barely in control, and he knows it. The knowledge is another kind of thrill; he holds on to it as he speeds through the fields, watching the occasional house streak by in the distance. It keeps his mind from focusing too much on things he doesn’t want to think about, from drawing conclusions that he doesn’t want to consider. If he thinks too much about it he’ll start to wonder if his mom really _is_ happier without all those things it hurt her to look at. If she’ll be able to sleep easier now that the house isn’t haunted by the memory of George Kirk.

He’ll start to wonder if she thinks things would be easier without Jim there, too.

There’s a figure in the distance, rapidly growing closer, and he knows from the awful shirt and the dorky, serviceable backpack that it’s Johnny. Jim had forgotten that his friend lives out here, and for a split second he considers picking him up, driving off together with the wind in their hair and their voices being snatched away by the wind. That would mean slowing down, though, and Jim doesn’t know if he can. Doesn’t know if he would if he could. So instead he contents himself with a honk and a wave, laughter bursting out of him at the shock on Johnny’s face when Jim yells his name.

The cop comes out of nowhere, and panic blooms again. He doesn’t know if the guy was hiding out somewhere, or if Frank called the police when Jim hung up on him, but it doesn’t matter. He’s not stopping, not ever if he can help it, not until he’s run far enough to forget why he’s driving this car in the first place. The sirens blare loudly over the music, and Jim’s eyes start darting around desperately, looking for a way out.

“Citizen.” The cop jabs sharply towards the side of the road with one finger. “Pull over.” It’s an authoritative voice, firm and certain, one that holds no doubt that it will be away.

Jim swings the wheel to the right just in time to whip the car down a side road, breathing fast and scowling in determination.

The cop doesn’t see the move coming, but his flitter is more maneuverable than the car and he’s on Jim’s tail again in no time. Jim’s eyes are wide as he watches the rearview mirror, blue and white lights flashing through a cloud of dust. He’s not going back, not if it means having to see this damn car every freakin’ day. He’ll figure out a way to shake the cop, something, but he won’t—

The car crashes through a heavy double gate, scaring the hell out of him. He ducks instinctively as the metal goes flying, but the car is still going, still barreling towards . . .

It’s only then that he realizes where this road leads. There’s an initial moment of gut-clenching fear, followed immediately by exhilaration. This is perfect; he couldn’t have planned it better. He can get rid of the car, and . . . and maybe he can just go with it. It would be so easy, and wouldn’t everyone be better off? Wouldn’t his mother be happier if she never has to see him again, never has to be reminded?

The terror and denial that blooms in his mind is familiar, and yet somehow not. His own, and yet not. It’s stronger than anything he’s ever felt before, almost crippling in its intensity. And in the seconds that he experiences it, his mind is made up. He throws the car into the highest gear and barrels straight for the quarry’s edge.

It’s only at the very last moment that he brakes, jerking the wheel hard to the left even as he fumbles with the latch and propels himself out of the door as soon as it opens. He lands hard on the ground, knocking the breath from his lungs, but it’s not enough to stop his momentum. He’s still being pulled towards the edge, and though he scrabbles for purchase he can’t manage to stop himself. He feels his feet slip over the precipice, then his legs, and he’s terrified because he doesn’t want to die, not really, he never did. Then his elbows catch on the uneven ground, and as he hears the car crash and crunch its way to the bottom of the canyon he wrestles himself back up to safety.

Jim barely has time to catch his breath before heavy, booted feet plant themselves in his field of vision and he pushes himself to stand. It’s one of those new enforcement drones, he sees now, and allows himself a moment of quiet relief. At least this thing’s not going to judge him. Meanwhile Jim’s a minor, he was going about fifty miles over the legal limit at least, and oh yeah, there’s a stolen car now crumpled in an unsalvageable heap at the bottom of the gorge. He swallows heavily.

“Is there a problem, officer?”

“Citizen,” the drone says. “What is your name?”

Jim raises his chin, defiant. He’s come this far; might as well go out like a badass.

“My name is James Tiberius Kirk.”

The ride back to town is almost fun, perched on the back of the flitter and holding tight to the waist of the mechanical man in front of him. It’s a warm, sunny day, and the robotic body is pumping out a fair amount of heat. Between that and the sudden drop in adrenaline, Jim’s almost asleep by the time they reach the police station. It’s all he can do to climb down and force his feet to carry him up the steps and into the cooler, climate-controlled building.

Frank is there waiting for him, which isn’t really surprising. Jim figures he probably called the cops as soon as the car was out of sight. He refuses to be intimidated, though, and he keeps his head up even though he’s nearly paralyzed with fear. Frank’s face is stark white, his mouth is pinched tight, and his hands are trembling just enough that Jim can see it. He reminds himself as he looks into unreadable eyes that Frank’s never raised a hand against him before.

Of course, Jim’s never driven an antique car over a cliff before, either, so there’s that.

He sits on a hard bench at the side of the room, the drone standing guard over him as Frank speaks with the officer at the desk in a voice too low for Jim to hear. Jim recognizes the officer; she’s the one who came to his kindergarten class to talk to their class about strangers and how you had to be careful on the networks and always tell an adult if something bad has happened and all of that. He remembers her pretty blonde hair, and her laugh when Jim solemnly refused the candy she tried to hand out because she was a stranger. For some reason, the idea that she’s seeing him like this makes him feel ashamed. Stupid; it’s not like she even remembers who he is.

That’s what he thinks, at least, before she glances over at him with a look that’s familiar by now. He slumps a little where he’s sitting, because of course she knows who he is; he’s George Kirk’s son.

Frank gives a final, sharp shake of his head, the pretty officer shrugs, and Jim stands before Frank can make it halfway across the room. With a sharp nod of his head, Frank heads for the front doors. Jim follows, anxiety chewing a hole in his stomach. He climbs into Frank’s old, battered ‘car with something uncomfortably like guilt, and they drive back home in absolute silence.

“Sorry about the car,” Jim mutters when they pull into the driveway, and Frank spares him a glance before he kills the engine.

“No you’re not,” he says simply, and Jim doesn’t argue. He’s not, really, but he’s afraid of how quiet his stepfather has been and it had seemed like the smart thing to say. Frank makes no move to get out of the ‘car, so Jim follows his lead, sitting there in silence while Frank stills his trembling hands by gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white. “What were you thinking, Jim?” he asks at last, his voice rough and unsteady and his eyes still fixed straight ahead. “If you wanted to punish me, destroy the car, that’s one thing. But that . . . you could have _died_ , Jim. Do you understand that?”

Frank does look over then, and his eyes are filled with so much anger, fear and pain that Jim can hardly breathe looking at them. This, he thinks dazedly, is what Vulcans are so afraid of; this is why they think it’s better to do without emotions entirely. Maybe they’re right. He watches as Frank swallows hard.

“Is that what you wanted?” he asks Jim. “Did you want to go over that cliff?”

Jim remembers that split second of thinking that it could all be over so easily, so quickly. But it didn’t last, and Frank looks so desperate that Jim’s hold on his anger is starting to slip. “No,” he whispers after a moment, shaking his head for good measure.

“Then _why_ . . .?” Frank trails off and shakes his head sharply when Jim doesn’t reply. “Upstairs,” he says at last, his jaw setting again. “You’re going to stay in your room until . . . until I damn well say you can leave.” His eyes harden. “ _Now_ , Jim.”

Jim is out of the car almost before Frank can finish saying his name, slamming his way into the house and stomping up the stairs to his room. He feels stupid for thinking that Frank might hurt him, and that makes him angry all over again. He throws himself down on his bed and fumes. Wrecking the car doesn’t seem like enough; he wants to rail and rage and tear the room apart, to sit in the middle of the floor and scream until his voice gives out. Before he can push himself up off of the bed, however, he hears a chirp from his PADD that signals an incoming message. He doesn’t really want to talk to anyone—it’s probably Johnny or Brian wondering why he hasn’t shown up at the pool yet—but his hand is automatically reaching out to check the screen anyway.

The name in his inbox is S’chn T’gai Sarek, and Jim’s heart leaps into his throat. Why is Spock’s father writing to him? With one trembling finger, he selects the message.

_James,_

_I am sending this from my father’s account as the delivery speed is 7.83 times faster than that achievable on a civilian server. Please respond quickly, as I anticipate I shall be in a significant amount of trouble for accessing his terminal without permission._

_I have already made several attempts to contact you via subspace call. As no one has answered, I assume that neither you nor your stepfather is at home. I earnestly request that you find the nearest equipped terminal and send a call to my home number. I will, of course, reimburse you for the expense._

_Your friend,_

_Spock_

“Jim!” he heard Frank call from downstairs. He doesn’t sound angry at the moment, just sort of baffled; Jim has a pretty good guess why. He opens his door.

“I’m in my room!” he calls back, and hears a grumble in response followed by heavy footsteps. Frank appears at the top of the stairs, and Jim glares sullenly from the doorway.

“Spock left about a dozen messages for you.” The look on Frank’s face makes it clear that he expects an explanation for such an expensive indulgence.

“He sent me a message, too,” Jim says, holding up his PADD. He shifts his weight uncertainly. “He seems pretty freaked out about something. Can I . . . he said he’d pay us back for the call. I think something’s wrong.”

Frank looks like he’s going to refuse, and Jim is already formulating a plan to sneak down that night while Frank’s asleep when his stepdad gives a curt nod. “Five minutes. Not a second more, understand. And right back to your room when you’re finished.”

Jim can hardly hold himself still long enough to nod his agreement before he’s hurrying past and down the stairs. He’s bouncing in his seat by the time Frank steps up to enter the authorization code, and Jim types in the number as quickly as he can. There’s a lag of a minute or two while the call connects; Jim hopes this isn’t counting towards his five. Then the screen blinks and Spock’s face is staring back at him. The half-familiar room behind him is dark, his features lit by the glow from the screen.

“James.” Spock’s dark eyes carefully search his face. “What happened?” he asks without preamble, and Jim blinks.

“Um. I was gonna ask you that. You called a bunch of times, and you sent me that message—”

“Approximately two hours ago,” Spock interrupts, “I felt something. Through our—”He glances around, but the room behind him is empty and Frank has moved off to the edge of the room. “Through our link,” he finishes quietly. “You were frightened, and excited, and then . . .”

Spock trails off, which isn’t exactly like him, and Jim’s heart gives a hard, painful thump. He doesn’t want his suspicion to be true, doesn’t want Spock to have felt that surge of longing that had hit him in the instants that he had considered . . . Then the penny drops. “That was you!” he whispers fiercely. “In my head, right before I . . .”

“James. What happened?” Spock asks again.

So Jim tells him everything, as quickly as he can. He leaves out bits and pieces—skips over what started everything, actually; he doesn’t want to talk about it with Frank in the room. But he tells him about the car, and the cliff, and the surge of _something_ in his mind there at the very end. He tries to send a sense of reassurance Spock’s way, that he’s fine and he’ll fill in the details later, but from the way Spock’s face goes still and stony he’s not sure if he managed it.

“Never,” Spock says in a clipped, icy voice when Jim finished, “do _anything_ of the sort _ever_ again. It is . . . it is unacceptable, James. Is that clear?”

And Jim, who can still remember the panic that had swamped him when Spock had disappeared into the Vulcan desert, understands perfectly. He blinks back tears, ashamed of having frightened Spock in that same way. Would they feel it, he wonders, if the other one died? He doesn’t want to find out.

“I’m sorry,” he says thickly. “I didn’t . . . I didn’t really want to . . .”

Spock’s face softens then. “I know.” He glances over his shoulder, then back at the screen. “My parents, when they wake up, will wish to know why I had to contact you so urgently.” Something like apology trickles into Jim’s mind. “I believe that I shall have to inform them of the link that has formed between us.”

“Oh.” Jim’s eyes dart down to the clock ticking away at the bottom of the screen. Thirty seconds left, and he swallows down a fresh wave of fear. “Will they . . . undo it? Take it away?”

“No,” Spock says decisively, to Jim’s great relief. “They can not, and even if they could, I would not allow it. _T’nash-veh sa-kai_ , James.”

“ _T’nash-veh sa-kai_ , Spock.” Ten seconds. “I’ve gotta go. I’ll send you a message later.”

“Live long and prosper, James.”

“Back at you.”

Jim has an uneasy night. He’s afraid to sleep, unwilling to give in to the nightmares he’s sure are waiting for him. Instead he lies on his back, staring up at the constellations Spock had helped him paint on his ceiling at the beginning of the summer. Jim wishes now that they’d painted the view from Vulcan instead of Earth; he misses his friend fiercely tonight, and he wishes he could lie here and pretend he’s looking up at the same sky that Spock sees.

He only gets up once, his steps light and nearly silent as he sneaks down to the kitchen. The first holochip that Spock gave him he keeps; all the rest are shoved without ceremony into the garbage.

Still unable to surrender to sleep, Jim retreats inside his head, trying to search out the part of him that’s linked to a boy on a planet he’s never seen. He knows that Spock can probably locate his side of it, even control it to some extent if the way he blocked it off that one time is any indication. Jim isn’t a telepath, but it seems impossible that he would have a part of Spock inside of him and not be able to recognize it. So he turns his attention inward, and searches as best he can. He’s still searching as he drifts off into a sleep without dreams.

When he wakes it’s to find bright sunlight filling his room and his mother, her eyes bloodshot and weary, sitting at the edge of his bed.

“Thought you’d sleep the day away,” she says, smoothing a hand over his hair.

“How’re you home?” he mumbles, still foggy with sleep.

“We weren’t far out, and when I got Frank’s call I took emergency transport back. Jim.” Before he can do more than process the sharp sting of tears behind his eyes she’s pulling him up, crushing him to her in a hug so tight he can hardly breathe. “Oh, God. What were you thinking?” she demands fiercely, never easing her grip. “Frank told me what happened, and I saw the recording from the flitter that picked you up, and are you _insane_?” She shoves him away, but her hands are still holding tight to his shoulders as she searches his face. “You nearly died, Jimmy. Why would you do something like that? _Why_?”

She tugs him to her again, and he burrows in close, glad because it’s easier to talk when he can hide his tears in her shirt. “Why did you get rid of all Dad’s stuff?” he asks, his voice muffled in her shoulder. “Why didn’t you say anything, or ask me if there was anything I wanted to keep, or . . .” The tears are too thick for him to talk now, but his mom is petting at his hair and her shoulders are shaking just like his.

“Oh, Jim, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I didn’t think that . . . I didn’t think. Frank said he found your collection in the trash. You never told me about that.”

“It made you sad,” he manages. “Talking about Dad.” He pulls back, staring defiantly up at his mother’s face. “I want to join Starfleet,” he says, and braces himself for her to protest, to tell him how dangerous it is, to flat-out forbid him.

For a moment it looks like she will do just that. He can see the fear in her eyes, the instinctive denial. She opens her mouth, and he takes a deep breath.

“If you choose the Engineering track, make sure you don’t take Professor Ambrose’s class for your warp drive mechanics requirements; he wouldn’t know a plasma stream from a black hole.”

She looks as surprised as Jim feels, and a moment later they’re both laughing softly as she pulls him close for another hug.

“So,” he ventures, wrapping his arms around her waist and squeezing tight, “does this mean I’m not grounded?”

She laughs again. “Not a chance. If you’re good in the meantime, though, you’ll be free again in time to take the entrance exam for the Academy.”

Jim sighs a little, but the answer’s hardly unexpected. “Um, Mom?” he says after a moment, his stomach fluttering with renewed nerves. “Since I’m already in trouble, there’s something I have to tell you.” He pulls away again, and she frowns down at him in concern. “See . . . um. How much do you know about Vulcan telepathy?”  
  
  
  



	10. Daffodil Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Because the kid who’s coming is _Vulcan_ , for heaven’s sake. There’s nothing fun about Vulcans. They’re logical and boring and, if Jim’s being completely honest, just the tiniest bit scary. And this is the boy who will be in his house, sharing his room, sleeping in his brother’s bed. How is he even supposed to start trying to make friends with someone so . . . well, alien?_

**Author's Note:** Aaaaand we're back to the fluff!  Not quite "go see the dentist immediately because your teeth are about to fall out" fluff, but respectably sweet and sugary.  No pictures again for this part, but if [](http://momo-girlie.livejournal.com/profile)[**momo_girlie**](http://momo-girlie.livejournal.com/)  wanted to draw something from this bit I could suggest one of the bits in particular. o.o

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Spock is aware, as he rises from his bed, that something is amiss, though he can not identify the evidence that has led him to that conclusion. As he stops to catalogue, he realizes that his time sense seems to have deserted him: he has no idea how long it has been since he fell asleep, though the continued darkness of the garden outside his window indicates that it has likely been less than a few hours.

He makes his way through the house, which is as empty and quiet as it always is at this time of night. He is uncertain exactly where he is going, but his feet move as though they, at least, are confident of his destination. I-Chaya lifts his head as Spock passes him, and Spock takes a moment to scratch lightly between his ears. After a moment he moves on, heading for the side door that leads to his mother’s garden.

When he steps outside the sky is a dull gray, the air is heavy and wet, and Spock realizes quite abruptly that he is dreaming.

Fascinating.

He has never dreamt before, and finds himself uncertain of the protocol. He can, he is certain, wake himself with very little effort. The idea is a tempting one; emotions seem to infuse the very air here, and though he is maintaining his controls against the terror, despair and horror that he finds himself steeped in, it requires a significant amount of effort. He can conceive of only one explanation for why he has found himself here, however, and he will not leave his friend to face this alone. Thus determined, he sets off through his mother’s flowers to begin his search for James.

Beyond the borders of the garden the sandy soil gives way to grasslands where the ground squelches wetly beneath his steps. He takes a moment to marvel at the shoes that have somehow appeared on his feet, then carries on through the rotting fields. The sense of James’s mind is all around him, but there is a mental current that seems to draw him in towards the center of that presence, and Spock follows it as best he is able.

There is a small group of buildings in the middle distance; Spock does not want to approach any closer. There is something about their appearance, something that he recognizes as somehow _wrong_ despite having never seen them before. Each one of them is the same deep red, and they appear oddly blurred around the edges, as though his eyes are unable to focus properly. The current of James’s mind carries him away from them, and he goes gratefully.

A scattering of trees has grown up around him when he turns, the edge of a forest that deepens farther on. The sense of _James_ is strong here, and Spock looks around expectantly. His friend is nearby, he is certain.

“James?” he calls, and a small, startled rustle sounds nearby.

“Spock?”

He is unprepared for the sight of his friend as he steps out from behind a nearby tree. James is thin, entirely _too_ thin; his cheekbones stand out in strong relief, and Spock can see the sharp jut of his collarbone where his shirt hangs too loosely. His hair hangs down into his dirty face, matted and tangled with bits of leaves and pine needles. He stares at Spock in dawning horror before he shakes his head sharply and darts forward to grab Spock’s wrist.

“How did you get here? You’re not supposed to be here.” James casts a fearful look over Spock’s shoulder. “You can’t yell like that,” he whispers. “They might hear you.”

“They?”

“The monsters.” James is already tugging him along, visibly terrified and surprisingly strong despite his wasted body. “The ones in town. I had to hide from them; you can hide with me.” His lip trembles as he glances over his shoulder again. “I think they want to eat us.”

“James.” Spock pulls them to a halt with a significant expenditure of effort. “There are no monsters.”

“There _are_. You haven’t been here very long, you don’t know. But I have a really good hiding place, they’ll never be able to find us—”

“ _James_.” Spock is using all of his strength to hold them still against James’s insistent tugging. Before he thinks better of it he reaches out to grip his friend’s free hand, hoping to startle him into attention. “We do not need to hide.”

“Aren’t you listening? Do you want to end up like me?” James turns to face him again, and Spock nearly stumbles back in surprise when he sees that James’s eyes have clouded over and now stare blindly at nothing at all.

“This is not real,” Spock says unsteadily. Then again, with more force, “This is _not real_. James.” He releases his grip to bring one hand to James’s temple. “You are dreaming. There are no monsters; your eyes function perfectly adequately; you are asleep, and if you wake you will find yourself in your bed in your own home.”

“Dreaming?” James blinks; Spock concentrates his will, and James’s eyes begin to clear. “I’m . . . oh god. Spock? Wait, but if I’m dreaming—”

“I am also asleep,” Spock informs him. “Our planets’ cycles are not frequently aligned, but it seems that tonight is an exception. I hypothesize that I felt your distress through our link, and that your mind pulled me into your dreaming state. Your mental strength seems to be quite formidable.”

“My mind,” James whispers, looking around. When his eyes find Spock’s again they are bright with tears that begin to fall as he shakes his head. “I don’t want this to be my mind.”

“It is only a nightmare.” Spock touches James’s temple again, attempting to project a sense of calm into his friend’s mind. “This is only a small part of your thoughts. When you wake again, it will fade as it always does.”

“But you won’t be there.” James squeezes his eyes closed and shakes his head again, dislodging Spock’s hand. “I don’t want to have this dream anymore, Spock. I don’t like it.”

Spock considers. “I do not believe that I can block it from your mind,” he says a moment later, “but you need not suffer it alone. The next time you find yourself here, seek me out.”

“How?” James whispers, opening his eyes again.

“Can you sense me now? Beyond what you see in front of you, can you feel me? Focus.”

James’s brow wrinkles as he concentrates, and after a moment he nods hesitantly. “I think so.”

“Remember that feeling, and when you are in need, follow it to find me again.”

“Will that work?”

Spock hesitates. “I do not know,” he admits, and to his surprise James smiles.

“Okay. I’ll try.”

“Good,” Spock says with a nod. “Now wake up, James.”

He opens his eyes to find himself lying in his bed with the morning sun beginning to brighten the room around him. His time sense tells him that he has been asleep for six point seven hours and Spock rises with a satisfied nod, ready to begin his day.

The letter from James arrives two Vulcan standard days later, and Spock very nearly smiles as he reads it.

_Dear Spock,_

_You’re not going to believe this crazy dream I had last night. Or maybe you will. I’m not sure. I think that maybe you were there, in my head. But I’ve dreamed really weird things before, so it might’ve just been a regular dream and I only_ thought _you were there. I don’t know._

_If you know what I’m talking about, write me back and tell me, okay? And if you don’t, I guess it’s just my screwy head._

_The healer_ did _say the link was okay, right? Just double checking._

_Your friend,_

_Jim_

Spock replies immediately, aware that it would be almost one full Terran week between the time that Jim had sent his letter and when he will receive Spock’s response.

_James,_

_I am indeed aware of the dream your letter referenced; I trust that you found, when you woke, that there were in fact no monsters waiting for you._

_It has occurred to me that we are unlikely to be often asleep at the same time. I did, however, believe I felt your presence in my mind two days ago, during my astrophysics lesson. Is it possible that you attempted to contact me at that time?_

_The healer that my parents consulted confirmed that our link, while unusual, is no cause for concern. Be at ease, James, and write back quickly._

_Your friend,_

_Spock_

The next dream happens three days later.

Spock finds himself rising from his bed again, almost immediately aware this time that he is, in fact, still asleep. He hurries from his room and downstairs, out into his mother’s garden. The sky is the same heavy gray, though in places Spock can see the color of Vulcan’s skies struggling to break through. He has barely started down the path when the gate opens and James steps hesitantly through.

“Spock!” He looks almost surprised, but pleasure quickly overtakes his expression. “Hey, I was looking for you!”

James is gaunt and dirty once more, but his eyes are bright with wonder as they take in the Vulcan garden. Spock feels a curiously strong sense of satisfaction take him; he is pleased to have James here, to be able at last to show his friend his home.

“It’s dry here,” James says in wonder. “And the plants are . . .” A shadow of a frown crosses his face. “But it’s everywhere, they said so . . .”

“James.” Spock steps forward to meet him. “You are dreaming again.”

“I—oh. Oh!” James’s eyes widen. “I forgot. I was looking for you because I . . . because I had that dream again.”

“Yes.” Spock considers the clear signs of malnutrition on his friend’s thin frame. “Are you still hungry?” James rubs at his stomach, nodding, and Spock reaches out to pluck a fat _duf-krus-savas_ berry from the bush next to him and holds it out to him.

“It looks like an orange,” James says, and starts to peel away the rind, only to hesitate a moment later. “What if I’m allergic?”

Spock raises an eyebrow. “Then it will be fortunate that you are not _actually_ consuming it,” he points out, and James laughs.

“Right.” His fingers make quick work of the rest of the rind, and he pops several segments into his mouth at once. His eyes widen, flicking back and forth between Spock and the fruit in his hand as he chews. “Doesn’t taste like an orange,” he says when he’s swallowed, and eats half of the remaining sections in one go. “’S good,” he mumbles around the mouthful.

Spock picks several more berries, handing each one to James in turn. With every mouthful he becomes less gaunt, as though the food is putting flesh back on his bones even as he eats it. By the time he finishes the last mouthful he is the boy Spock knows once more; still dusty and smudged with dirt, but now it seems no worse than any time he and James have spent a full day playing outside. Spock allows himself another moment of fierce satisfaction.

“So.” James is wandering through the garden now, peering at the different plants as Spock follows close behind. “Where are we?”

“This is my mother’s garden on Vulcan.”

“We’re at your house?” James looks up in surprise and takes in the sight of the house that looms above them. He swallows visibly. “Wow.”

“I am pleased that you are finally able to see it,” Spock admits, and the astonished look falls off of James’s face to be replaced with a warm smile.

“Me too. It’s _nice_ here, too. I mean, the weather. Isn’t Vulcan supposed to be wicked hot? And how come I knew what that fruit would taste like even though I’ve never had it before?”

Spock makes a mental note to investigate the odd turn of phrase, but ignores it for the moment in favor of addressing his friend’s question. “I believe that you are experiencing things through my perception,” he says. “I enjoy the taste of _duf-krus-savas_ berries, and I find the temperature quite comfortable at this time of year.”

“Makes sense.” James looks around again, then back at Spock. “So we’re in _your_ mind now?”

“It is a logical conclusion,” Spock agrees.

“Cool,” James grins. “I got your letter,” he says suddenly, and apropos of nothing. “I wrote back, too, but you probably didn’t get it yet. I had another dream a few days ago; not . . . not this one, just a regular dream. But I was looking for you anyway, I don’t remember why. I found you trying to explain Surak’s teachings to the warp core. We were on a starship,” he adds by way of explanation, and Spock blinks.

“Why would I be attempting to converse with an inanimate object? It is—”

“Illogical?” James grins. “Dreams usually are. Anyway, I think that’s probably what you felt. You know, when you were in class? Did I distract you?”

“Only for a moment. It was . . .” Spock considers, recalling the sensations that had overtaken him that day. “I was aware of your presence, but of nothing beyond that.” He lifts his eyebrow again. “I certainly do not remember attempting to educate the warp core of a starship.” James laughs, and Spock does his best to suppress a smile. “I am glad, however, that you were able to find me even while I was awake.”

“Yeah. It was . . . sort of different. Not like this.” James reaches out to touch the leaves of an _indukah_ tree. “I didn’t know I was dreaming until I woke up, and it didn’t feel this real.”

“Interesting,” Spock muses. “It would seem that while we are both sleeping, we can access each other’s minds in a way very similar to a meld, but are unable to reach the same level of contact when one of us is awake.”

“Is that normal?”

“I am uncertain. Vulcans do not dream, and my mother has developed sufficient control over her own mind that she does so only rarely. I have only been linked with a dreaming mind four times in my life, though it has never been like this before.”

James is frowning, though it seems to be in concentration rather than irritation. “Why do you think it’s like this with us? Our link is just like a family one, right?”

“Indeed.” Spock considers the question. “Perhaps it is because your mind was seeking mine? I doubt that my mother, when she dreams, would have cause to seek me out.”

“Makes sense,” James nods. He looks around again. “So . . . what now?”

Spock takes a moment to consider again. The answer comes to him almost immediately, and he reaches out to take James carefully by the wrist.

“There is someone I wish for you to meet.”

When they make their way inside the house the _sehlat_ is there to meet them, pushing his head eagerly against Spock’s chest in a bid for attention. James’s eyes grow almost impossibly large as he takes in the sight of Spock’s pet.

“This is I-Chaya,” Spock says, releasing James’s wrist in order to scratch the _sehlat_ between his ears. “Or, I suppose, my memory of him. I-Chaya, this is James.” He glances over to see James standing a careful, wary distance back. “There is no need to be anxious; he will not harm you any more than I would.”

“I can’t believe you were freaked out about _Argus_ being big,” James mutters, but steps forward with a tentative hand extended. I-Chaya takes one cautious sniff before nudging James’s hand so that it lands atop his head, and James laughs. “Aww, you’re just a big softie, aren’t you?”

“I-Chaya was quite fond of me,” Spock says, stroking the side of the _sehlat_ ’s head that James can not reach. “As you are my _sa-kai_ , it is logical to assume that he would be equally fond of you.”

James smiles as he scratches gently behind one soft ear. “Hey, Spock? You said this is your memory of I-Chaya. And this is your memory of your house, right, and your mother’s garden?”

“Indeed.”

“So . . .” James glances over, and Spock’s heart thumps hard in his side at the familiar, mischievous glint in his eyes. “Will you show me around the city? Since I never got to come here in real life. We can ride I-Chaya, and you can show me all the cool stuff there is to see.”

“I am uncertain how much _cool stuff_ there is in Shi’Kahr, but I would be pleased to offer you a tour.” He ponders for a moment, trying to imagine where James would most like to visit. “We can start with the _Suta_ temple in the Old Quarter.”

From then on, it is like any other pretending game that he plays with James. They travel through his memories on I-Chaya’s back, ignored by the vague outlines people of that Spock conjures around them. They travel from the temple to Spock’s school, to the Terran Embassy where his father works, to Vulcan Space Central and the Vulcan Science Academy. James takes it all in with wide, eager eyes. Here in the safety of his mind Spock can forget his fears of how James may be treated as a Human among Vulcans, and focus solely on the pride that suffuses him at his friend’s excitement and exclamations.

They are in the midst of the Artisan Quarter when James abruptly seems to flicker; a moment later he has disappeared, leaving Spock alone with I-Chaya in the midst of the faceless crowd. Presuming that James must have woken, Spock readies himself to do the same.

When he opens his eyes he is greeted by the sight of his father seated on the edge of his bed, the fingers of one hand still pressed lightly to Spock’s temple. Spock’s mother stands at his side, holding tight to her husband’s shoulder.

“Father,” Spock greets cautiously. “Mother.” He pauses, unsure. “Is something wrong?”

“Spock.” His father’s voice, deep and strong, instills in him an automatic sense of stillness. “Would I be correct in presuming that you have just been dreaming?”

Though there is no judgement in his father’s voice—no inflection of any kind, in fact—Spock has to fight against a flash of guilt. “I was.” His father moves back, allowing his son space as Spock sits up. “Is that troubling?”

“It is . . . unexpected.” He rises, and Spock’s mother’s hand falls from his shoulder. “When you have bathed and dressed, attend me in my study. If you are late for school I will ensure that you are excused.”

As he leaves, Spock’s mother offers him a reassuring smile. “I’ll have breakfast waiting for you when you’re finished,” she says, and then Spock is left alone in his room with the warmth of James’s smile still lingering in his mind.

He dresses carefully, trying not to linger overlong on his preparations despite the nerves that are attempting to swamp him. His father’s study is reserved for topics of great seriousness. It is where he informed Spock that he had chosen T’Pring as his _koon’ul-veh_ , and where Spock had gone to explain himself after his ill-fated attempt at an early _kahs-wan_. It was also where he had had his mind examined by a healer to ensure that his link with James was benign. Try as he might, when he is in that room Spock was unable to think of his father _as_ his father; within its walls he is always Ambassador Sarek, and Spock is merely a young Vulcan boy attempting to explain himself.

As he makes his way downstairs Spock recites his lessons for emotional control, determined as ever to be flawlessly Vulcan in his father’s presence. He does not bother to knock before entering; his father is expecting him, and it would be illogical to pretend otherwise.

“Spock.” The ambassador nods in greeting, and glances pointedly at the seats grouped together at one side of the room. “Sit.”

Spock obeys, perching straight-backed in the chair closest to him. To his surprise, the ambassador sits as well, settling into the seat across from Spock and carefully steepling his fingers. For a moment he simply regards Spock silently, perhaps considering how best to begin.

“Your mother and I are concerned,” the ambassador asks at last. He pauses; Spock, uncertain if a response is required, stays silent. Sarek lifts an eyebrow. “Do you understand why?”

Spock takes a moment to fully consider the possibilities before he answers. “Vulcans do not dream.”

“Indeed, we do not. Our brains do not emit the cholinergic PGO waves that trigger what Humans refer to as a REM state.” His gaze seems to sharpen on Spock’s. “Rapid eye movement has never before been witnessed in a Vulcan.”

 _He has Human eyes._ With his classmate’s taunt replaying in his mind, Spock can only nod.

“You have never shown a tendency to dream before,” Sarek says, but pauses as soon as the words are spoken. Whether the response he finds is revealed on Spock’s face or through their parental link, Spock can not say, but the ambassador’s eyebrows lift slightly and Spock struggles not to squirm. “How many times has this happened before?”

“Only once.”

Spock hesitates, unsure of how much to reveal. Ambassador Sarek seems almost omniscient, however; it would be illogical to conceal the truth when it would certainly be easily ascertained.

So he explains the circumstances of that first dream, how he found himself drawn to the distress in James Kirk’s mind. He reveals James’s attempt to seek him out within a dream, and shares the conclusions that the two of them have reached. Through it all he carefully monitors the ambassador’s reactions, but there are precious few visual clues to be seen and Spock has always found their parental bond to be tentative at best.

“I see,” Sarek says when Spock has finished, and for several long moments there is only silence. “That is . . . interesting,” he says eventually, “and concerning. I do not believe that—”

“Healer Selv said that the link that James and I share is no different than a healthy familial bond,” Spock says abruptly, and though he is astonished at his own daring he does his best to keep his shock from showing in his expression. Sarek raises an eyebrow and nods slowly.

“That is true. However—”

“Furthermore,” Spock interrupts again, “he confirmed that it poses no threat to my bond with T’Pring.”

Sarek’s eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. “Indeed.”

“I fail to see, then, why my link with James is a cause for concern.”

Sarek fixes Spock with a keen stare. “In itself,” he says carefully, “it is not. However, the very fact that you are _able_ to dream is most decidedly a cause for _interest_. When you were born, the healers were certain that your brain was almost entirely Vulcan in structure. None of us believed that you would ever be capable of something so Human as dreaming. Now that it has become clear that you _are_ capable, at least in some limited extent, our hypotheses will have to be reexamined.” He pauses, then continues slowly, “It is possible, in fact, that you will never require a bondmate as we have presumed you would.”

Spock takes several tense moments to process what the ambassador has said, and what he has not. If Sarek believes that Spock may not require a bondmate, then it must mean that he believes it to be possible that Spock will never experience his Time, that he may never burn as Vulcans do. It is almost too much to hope. The thought of _pon farr_ fills him with a fear that he is utterly unable to suppress; the possibility that he may never have to live a slave to its agonies and indignities is impossibly seductive.

“Will I be required to submit to more tests?” he asks.

“Yes,” Sarek says simply.

Spock merely nods. Aside from the time spent at school, medical tests have easily accounted for the majority of Spock’s life to date. It is his duty as the first Vulcan/Human hybrid to submit to them in order to provide as much information as possible. He dislikes doing so, but that is irrelevant. They are logical, and he is still Vulcan enough to accept that as the superior argument.

“It would also be wise,” the ambassador continues, “to avoid allowing James Kirk to pull you into a dreaming state until the healers have been able to determine—”

“My apologies,” Spock says, even as a part of him is reeling in shock at his temerity in interrupting for a third time, “but I am unable to agree to that. I have promised James that I will not leave him to face his nightmares alone. I gave my word, and I will not break it.”

“That is admirable,” Sarek allows, “but perhaps an unwise promise to have made.”

“Nevertheless, it was my choice, and I will accept the consequences,” Spock says stubbornly. “He is . . .” He falters for a brief moment, but then he straightens his shoulders and lifts his chin. “He is my friend.”

For a moment he thinks that the ambassador is displeased. To his surprise, however, Sarek does not attempt to argue. Instead he favors Spock with another slow, thoughtful nod and sits back ever so slightly in his chair.

“I believe that perhaps your mother was correct. This seems to be a primarily . . . emotional matter. I cannot advise you, in that case, except to warn you to take care. You have chosen to embrace the Vulcan way, Spock; you must master your emotions rather than allowing them to master you.”

“I am grateful for your counsel,” Spock says with a returning nod. “I shall follow it to the best of my ability.”

For a brief moment, Spock imagines that Sarek’s lips almost seem to twitch. “I am certain that you will.” He stands, already turning towards his desk. “Your mother will have your morning meal ready for you. I will make an appointment with Healer Selv for you to be examined after your classes have concluded.”

Spock stands as well at this clear dismissal. “I will return home immediately afterwards,” he says, and leaves the room without waiting for a response.

He will write James after his appointment with Healer Selv, he decides. There is still much of the city that they did not yet visit in their shared dream, and he would very much like to finish their tour. The calculations to determine when they will next have an opportunity to sleep at the same time should be simple enough.

When his mother sets a bowl of sectioned _duf-krus-savas_ berries in front of him, Spock only just manages to suppress a smile as he begins to eat.  
  
  



	11. Daffodil Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Because the kid who’s coming is _Vulcan_ , for heaven’s sake. There’s nothing fun about Vulcans. They’re logical and boring and, if Jim’s being completely honest, just the tiniest bit scary. And this is the boy who will be in his house, sharing his room, sleeping in his brother’s bed. How is he even supposed to start trying to make friends with someone so . . . well, alien?_

**Author's Note:** A glorious return! \o/  For real, you guys, this chapter was a freaking albatross and I don't know why.  >_<  I had 90% of it planned and the ending already written; it should've been a cakewalk.  WELL IT WAS NOT.  Finally finished, though, so enjoy. ^_^   Those of you who remember last year's Ship Wars may recognize the end of this chapter, and those of you familiar with [](http://momo-girlie.livejournal.com/profile)[**momo_girlie**](http://momo-girlie.livejournal.com/) should recognize the drawings that I [~~shamelessly ripped off~~](http://anubis-admirer.deviantart.com/gallery/23919882?offset=24#/d2dgned) [used for inspiration](http://anubis-admirer.deviantart.com/gallery/23919882?offset=24#/d2ds2wr).  (Please ignore the discrepancy in ages between the picture and where they are now.  It was cute, shush.)  Finally, for those of you who didn't see it on my journal, there has been [an announcement](http://ladyblahblah.livejournal.com/70234.html) about the future of this fic (which explains why there is now an ending chapter in sight).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The cave is cold, and though it provides shelter it’s rained for so long that the air is saturated, and Jim feels soaked to the skin anyway. He doesn’t dare start a fire; the monsters that are hunting him aren’t frightened of fire, and it would only make him easier to find. Not that it matters, since there isn’t any dry wood in any case.

  
As if summoned by his thoughts, heavy footfalls begin to sound outside of the cave, accompanied by low, growling voices that Jim can’t understand. Jim’s heart leaps into his throat. Unable to force himself to his feet through the fear gripping him, he scoots backwards across the cave floor as quickly as he can. He can’t remember what the monsters look like, but it doesn’t matter; if they catch him they’ll carry him away just like they did the others. They’ve eaten all the food and now they’re eating the people and Jim is shaking from cold and from terror, fumbling blindly in the darkness that covers everything now.

As he skitters backwards, away from the monsters, he slowly begins to feel warmer. He doesn’t know its source, but he knows it must be better than what he’s fleeing. He struggles to his feet at last and slides into the crevice at the back of the cave. The walls are tight around him, but the farther he goes the warmer it gets, and the less his fear overwhelms him, until finally he tumbles into suddenly empty space and lands with a thump on the smooth tiled floor.

It’s bright here, and he blinks the last of the shadows from his eyes as he pushes himself to his feet. He’s come out between two giant computer banks, and a smile lights up his face when he sees the dark-haired figure standing nearby, bent studiously over one of the consoles.

“Spock!” Jim hurries over with a grin. “I didn’t know you were going to be here.”

Spock turns to regard him, and his eyes are warm despite the pointedly raised eyebrow. “I always come to visit you, Jim.”

“Yeah, I know.” Jim laughs. “I just forgot it was already that time of year already. Hey, do you—”

“Boys.” They both turn to see a pretty woman standing nearby, hands on her hips as she watches them. “I thought I told you not to wander off.”

“Sorry, Ms. Taggart.”

Despite her stern expression, her eyes are warm with humor as she gestures for them to precede her. “Come on, the rest of the class is waiting.”

“I’m glad I got to come after all,” Jim says happily as they join up with the others and begin to make their way through a twisting series of glass-lined tunnels. “I didn’t think I would, since I was only in Ms. Taggart’s class for the first month of school.”

“Where are we?” Spock asks, trying to peer through the glass, and Jim grins.

“The aquarium, duh. It’s our big end of the year trip, where you get to go to Des Moines for the whole day and go to the zoo or the aquarium or the planetarium. You’re not gonna see anything,” he adds impatiently, “this exhibit’s closed.”

“Why would you not be able to attend?” Spock asks, turning back to Jim.

“Um.” It strikes Jim quite suddenly that Spock has very pretty eyes, and it steals his concentration for a moment. “Like I said, I’m not in Ms. Taggart’s class anymore. I’m already in sixth grade, and this is supposed to be a celebration for kids going from fifth to sixth.”

Spock tilts his head slightly, the way he does when he’s just a little bit confused. “I must confess, I find the Human tradition of celebrating events that are both common and universally expected to be somewhat odd.”

“Don’t Vulcans celebrate _anything_?”

“No.” Spock pauses, considering. “We have rites of passage, but I doubt that they are terribly similar.”

“Well, just think of this like a rite of passage, only . . . you know, fun.”

Jim grins unrepentantly at the arch look that Spock shoots him. He feels light and happy, and when he takes Spock’s hand to pull him along he’s aware of the way it feels in his like he never has been before. His heart is racing the same way it did when he held Bryanna Rylant’s hand during the week that they were going out, and the realization startles him so much that he lets go before Spock can realize what he’s thinking.

The glass tunnel empties into a large open area, where an enormous tank stands uncovered beneath the sky. Large, oddly familiar creatures are moving through the water, and Jim drifts forward for a closer look. He’s sure he’s seen things like this before, though he can’t remember where. He reaches out again, searching for Spock, but his hand only finds empty air. He turns around, frowning.

Spock is gone.

Cries from his classmates send him spinning back to the tank, and his eyes go so wide that he thinks for a moment that they might fall right out of his head. There’s a pale shape in the water now, just the right size for a boy on the small side of eleven years old. Jim rushes forward, pressing his face to the glass as he stares.

Spock has shed most of his clothes; only his underwear and undershirt remain, both nearly the same color as his skin in the sunlit water. The people behind Jim are still crying out, panicking as Jim ignores them.

The animals are approaching Spock now as he floats serenely between them, and Jim finally tears himself away from the glass to pelt headlong up the staircase that runs up the side of the tank. Even as he runs he’s not sure if he’s hurrying to pull Spock out or jump in with him, but it turns out to be a moot point. By the time he makes it to the top of the tank Spock is already out, standing with a towel around his shoulders and the Vulcan version of a mutinous expression on his face.

“—extremely dangerous,” Ms. Taggart is saying furiously. “Those aren’t pets, Spock!”

“He wouldn’t have done it without a good reason,” Jim protests immediately, reaching out to take Spock’s hand again even as he moves to stand beside his friend.

Ms. Taggart turns her glare on Jim, but it’s his mother’s face scowling down at him now, and Jim can’t help but feel an instinctive surge of guilt.

“This is your bad influence, Jimmy. Spock never got into trouble like this before the two of you met.”

Jim feels hot tears sting his eyes at the accusation, but Spock’s hand tightens around his, steadying him. “I entered the tank of my own free will,” he says calmly. “Jim had nothing to do with it.”

“I doubt your mother will see things quite that way, Spock,” Jim’s mom chides. “Come with me, boys.”

She leads them across the deck to a small office that overlooks the large tank on one side and the rest of the aquarium on the other. Jim and Spock are ushered onto a couch that sits beneath a large digital display of tropical fish while Jim’s mom slips behind the desk where she begins making calls and filing reports.

“I apologize,” Spock says quietly, so that only Jim can hear. “It was not my intent to get you in trouble.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s okay.”

Jim looks over at his friend, and it hits him suddenly how very close Spock is sitting. The heat from his body hits Jim in a sudden rush, and he’s aware again of the feel of Spock’s hand in his. He’s close enough that Jim can see drops of water still clinging to Spock’s lashes. His eyes drop to Spock’s lips of their own accord. He is very abruptly aware of how easy it would be to simply lean forward and press his own lips against them. He’s already leaning forward by the time he realizes it, their lips almost touching, almost—

“Jim! Come on, you’re not going to be late on your last day. Time to get up, I mean it!”

Jim jerks awake, the stripes on his pillowcase swimming in his vision for a moment before his eyes manage to adjust to the bright morning light. His left hand is clutching a corner of the bedspread; he forces his fingers open, and the impression of Spock’s hand in his slowly begins to fade. His heart is racing, pounding in his chest like he’s just run a marathon. He sits up slowly, taking in the sight of his room around him, just a normal bedroom in his normal house in a normal Iowa town. He’s almost calmed down when he hears Frank shout up the stairs again.

“Jim! I’d better hear you moving around in the next ten seconds! Up!”

“Crap,” Jim mutters, adrenaline hitting him all over again as he throws off the covers and jumps out of bed.

He’s dressed and downstairs in record time, running out the front door with barely a pause to grab the lunch Frank packed for him last night and pretending not to hear when his stepfather calls after him to comb his hair before he gets to school. The ‘bus is just pulling away when he reaches the stop, but the driver sees him waving and waits for him to clamber on board.

Jim finds an empty seat and collapses into it, already rummaging in his lunch sack. He pulls out an apple and takes an enthusiastic bite. He usually spends the trip to school reading, but he left the PADD with his recreational reading on his nightstand in his rush. Some of his textbooks are interesting, but he’d learned early on that while the other kids might tolerate a scrawny ten-year-old on their bus, they wouldn’t overlook him actively doing schoolwork in their presence. So he makes a conscious effort to eat slowly enough that his apple will last the entire way to school, and watches the people around him.

There are two eighth-graders he doesn’t know by name sitting across the aisle from him, the boy twisted around to talk to the girl behind him over the back of his seat. Their hands are linked, and she’s playing with his fingers with a smug sort of smile on her face as he chatters on with an occasional pause to blush and grin. Jim looks away quickly, feeling a flush heat his own cheeks. He’s not going to think about that stupid dream, he tells himself sternly, and he’s not going to imagine what it would be like to have Spock sitting here next to him, to be able to simply reach down and link their hands together.

He’s not.

The school day, the last one of the year, seems to last forever. Jim is prepared to swear that there have never been this many couples in the school before, and he wonders if junior high is like this at the end of every school year. Though keeping his head down in the hallways lets him avoid witnessing most of the PDA going unnoticed by the staff, his luck runs out when he reaches his final class.

Like the rest of the school today, the Advanced Physics classroom is hovering somewhere just shy of total chaos. Exams are finished and the teachers seem just as eager as the students are for school to be over. With a few killjoy exceptions, the motto of the day has seemed to be _don’t set anything on fire and we’ll all get along fine_. Jim makes his way through the laughing, gossiping groups to his usual seat and finds his friend Katy waiting there for him.

“Hey,” he greets her, grateful for any sort of normality in an otherwise surreal day. He sets his PADDs on his desk and drops into the seat. “How do you think you did on the test?”

“Pretty well.” She opens her mouth to say something but closes it again without speaking, her mouth tilting up in a hint of a smile, and Jim’s stomach sinks a little. There’s hardly anything that can distract Katy from talking about academics. “There’s gonna be a party at Padisa Orningh’s house tonight,” she says at last. “Do you think your dad will let you go?”

“Stepdad,” Jim corrects automatically, raising his eyebrows. “And I doubt Padisa wants a _little kid_ at her party.”

“That was at the beginning of the year, Jim, I’m sure she doesn’t think you’re just a little kid anymore. And even if she does, she’ll get over it. Besides.” Katy’s eyes are shining behind her glasses, and her cheeks are turning pink beneath her freckles. “It’s Ainsley’s party, too, and she said I should invite you.” She can’t hold back her grin any longer. “She said you should come, since you’re friends with her . . . girlfriend,” she finishes, grinning and blushing even harder.

“Wow. Um. Congrats, Katy.”

Jim hopes his smile doesn’t look as strained as it feels. He’s happy for Katy, he really is; her crush on Ainsley Ra has been epic and supposedly doomed to remain unrequited. The two of them have always seemed as different as two people could possibly be, despite Katy being right that Ainsley wasn’t the ditzy jock Jim used to think she was. She’s nicer than the rest of her friends, he has to admit, and if she makes Katy smile like this she can’t be all bad. On any other day Jim would be thrilled; today, though, he just doesn’t think he can take much more of this sudden explosion of romance.

Luckily Katy doesn’t seem to expect much more of a response, and when Jim says that he doesn’t think Frank would let him go to a party thrown by almost-eighth-graders—which is a convenient truth—she accepts it without too much fuss. They _do_ discuss their final exams for the rest of the period after that, and Jim manages to pretend that there’s nothing too unusual about the day after all.

Jim cleans out his locker as quickly as he can after the final bell, eager to get away from the mass of happy couples and teary farewells. With no need to rush home he decides to walk instead of taking the ‘bus, though he regrets it after a block or two when the lack of distractions has his mind drifting back to his dream again.

He doesn’t really want to kiss Spock, did he? The very idea is ridiculous. Spock is . . . he’s _Spock_. He’s Jim’s best friend. It must have just been Jim’s brain being screwy, coming up with a weird situation from the fact that he’s excited over Spock’s arrival in a few days, that’s all. After all, last week Jim dreamed that he was hunting a monster through a whole maze of underground caves, and _that_ doesn’t mean that Jim actually wants to kill rock-beasts or whatever. Dreaming something doesn’t make it true.

Given the sort of things Jim tends to dream of, he has to believe that.

He’s still reassuring himself by the time he gets home, so lost in his thoughts that he’s almost to the foot of the stairs by the time he registers Frank’s greeting. Jim turns to answer him, but the sight that meets him strikes him momentarily dumb. His eyebrows shoot straight up at the sight of Frank dressed like he’s going to a business meeting, pressed slacks and nice shoes and a button-down shirt.

“Do you have a meeting?” is Jim’s first question. It’s a strange time for one, but those are usually the only things that can Frank to dress up. Well, those and . . .

“No, I’m going to the P.T.A. mixer.” Frank is tugging at his shirt cuffs, trying to get them to stay straight, which Jim is pretty sure is a lost cause. He apparently decides the same thing, because he gives it up and looks back up at Jim. “The end-of-the-year thank you thing. It’s on the calendar.”

Jim hasn’t bothered to check today’s date on their family schedule calendar because he’d been sure he knew what it would say. _Jim’s last day of school._ There wouldn’t be a note about pizza and vids. It isn’t an official tradition or anything, just something he and Frank usually do; pizza with toppings that Jim gets to choose, two or three vids they can agree on because you don’t have to talk when a vid is on. Just something they usually do.

“Oh.” Jim shifts the strap of his bag still slung over his shoulder. “Is it gonna go late?”

“Probably until nine or so. Leo should be here soon. I’ll leave some credits for you guys to get pizza, and you can download a couple of vids off of the network if you feel like it. Just nothing violent, okay?”

Jim scowls out of habit more than anything. “I don’t need a _babysitter_. I’m not a little kid.”

“Yeah, I know,” Frank snorts, and for a moment things feel like they did when he and Jim’s mom had first gotten married. “You’re practically an old man. But Leo’s coming over anyway.”

“Fine,” Jim groans, but doesn’t argue any more. The truth is that he’d rather have Bones babysitting him than be stuck in the house all by himself tonight, even if he won’t say so out loud. He stomps up the stairs on basic principle.

“Remember, your mom’s coming home tomorrow,” Frank calls after him. “I want your room cleaned up by then, understand?”

“Okay!” Jim yells back without turning around, so that he can’t get in trouble for rolling his eyes.

He stomps all the way to his room and glares around. It’s not that bad in here, he thinks, but he plucks a couple of pairs of underwear and a shirt off of the floor and tosses them towards the hamper before flopping down backwards onto his bed.

What he really wants to do, he thinks as he stares up at the ceiling, is to write to Spock. Not because of . . . of anything that may have happened at the end of the dream, Jim assures himself quickly, but because he’s wondering about the enormous things in the tank, the things that had been swimming towards Spock. As the details of the dream have faded during the day, Jim has become less and less sure that he has any idea what they were. All he’s sure of is that they were nothing he could find in a real aquarium. Something from Vulcan, maybe, though that feels wrong. But Vulcan has seas, Jim knows, so surely it has animals that live in them?

There’s a knock on his door and Jim, expecting Frank, quickly rolls onto his stomach, stretching across the bed as if to tug the far edge of the bedspread into place.

“Hey, kid,” Bones says as he opens the door to poke his head inside, and Jim immediately leaves off pretending to make the bed.

“I’m not a kid,” he grumbles, rolling back again and folding his hands over his stomach with a heavy sigh.

Bones just snorts the same way Frank did as he plops down on the edge of the bed. “Though you were supposed to be up here cleaning things up.”

“Didn’t feel like it.”

“Hmm.” Jim can feel Bones’s eyes on him, the same carefully measuring stare that he uses when he’s working out just how much trouble Jim’s gotten into when he wasn’t watching. “All right,” he says after a moment, brisk and demanding as ever. “What’s crawled up your ass and died?”

Jim sits up, his eyes going wide as they fly over to the older boy, and his lips twitch despite his determination to maintain his bad mood. Bones _never_ swears in front of him. Maybe he’s taking Jim seriously after all. He could talk to Bones about it, he supposes. But if he laughs, Jim swears to himself he’ll hit him, even if Bones _is_ bigger than he is.

“Have you ever had a friend, only you think you don’t want to be just friends anymore, but you don’t really know for sure and besides they probably don’t even like you like that but you sort of can’t stop thinking about them?” Jim blurts out in one long, explosive breath.

Bones blinks back at him.

“Forget it,” Jim mutters, and flops back down again. His face feels so hot he knows he must be blushing, and he wishes for one fierce moment that the floor would simply open up and swallow him whole.

“So.” Bones clears his throat. “You’ve got a crush on someone, is that it?”

“No.” Jim bites his lip. “Maybe. I don’t know. Bones,” he moans, twisting around until he’s sitting with his legs tucked under him. “How do you make someone like you back?”

Bones’s eyes go soft for a moment with something like pity. “You can’t _make_ someone like you, Jimmy. Either they do or they don’t. Is this about Katy?”

“Huh?” It’s Jim’s turn to blink, unable for the life of him to figure out how Bones could have gotten that idea. “No! Katy’s just my friend. Besides, she’s got a girlfriend; I wouldn’t want to steal someone away from someone else.”

“Well, you’re young yet,” Bones mutters, but his gaze has gone shrewd now. “So who is this mystery crush, then?”

“No one,” Jim says defensively. “It’s hypothetical.”

“Sure it is.”

“Come on, Bones, you get girls to like you all the time! How do you do it?”

The older boy sighs and scrubs a hand over the back of his head. “You’re already friends with this _hypothetical_ person, right?”

Jim’s eyes narrow at the obvious sarcasm, but he nods.

“Okay. Well, then you’ve gotta court ‘em so that they see you as something more than just a friend. Lay some groundwork, see, before you ask ‘em out.”

“Groundwork?”

“Yeah. You know, be considerate, take ‘em places you think they’d like to go. Maybe buy a little gift or two for ‘em.”

Jim’s fingers twitch with the urge to write all of this down, but he knows that if he goes for a PADD he’ll never hear the end of Bones’s teasing. “Gifts,” he repeats. “What sort of gifts?”

“Most girls seem to like flowers,” Bones offers. “That’ll tip your hand pretty clearly, though. Try to find something you think they’ll like, but that they’d never get themselves.”

“Okay.” Jim nods absently, his mind racing. “Right.”

“You’ll do fine,” Bones assures him. “You’ve got a natural silver tongue, Jimmy; if all else fails, you can always try just talkin’ ‘em into it.” He stands, stretches. “C’mon, you wanna order the pizza?”

“I want extra sausage,” Jim says automatically, and Bones makes a face.

“All that fatty meat’s not good for you, Jim.”

They bicker over pizza toppings until they place the call, and then over the movie choice until they agree to flip a coin. Even when Jim wins, however, he hardly pays attention to what’s on the screen. His thoughts are a jumble, torn between plans and doubts. He’s still not sure if he actually _does_ have a crush on Spock. And even if he does, does he want to do anything about it? Spock is his very best friend, but he’s also awfully Vulcan. Do Vulcans have crushes? Do they court each other, or date, or do any of that stuff? Would Spock want to do that stuff with Jim even if he could? What if he says no when Jim asks him out? If he does. If he even wants to.

Jim thinks so hard that he gives himself a headache. Bones blames it on the pizza and the dessert Jim talked him into and hurries him off to bed before Frank even gets home, and Jim stares at the dark ceiling and worries about falling asleep. He’s sure that he’s going to dream about Spock again, maybe _actually_ kiss him this time, and the idea is equal parts thrilling and terrifying. It only gets worse, too when it occurs to him to worry that Spock might realize what Jim has been dreaming about. Jim isn’t sure, but he’s willing to bet there’s at least one Vulcan cultural taboo against subconsciously kissing your friend without his consent.

In the end, though, the strain of the day is too much and he can’t manage to stay awake. He’s so tired, in fact, that he doesn’t dream at all; or if he does, it’s forgotten the moment his eyes open to the sound of a deafening crash downstairs. Jim’s out of bed and racing towards the noise before he’s even fully awake, and finds Frank in the laundry room, swearing a blue streak with packets of cleaning solvent scattered all over the floor and the wall shelf dangling from one weak bracket. He looks up when Jim appears in the doorway, something close to panic in his eyes.

“Your mom’s gonna be here in three hours.”

It’s all he needs to say.

The morning is a frenzy of last minute cleaning. Neither of them has a natural talent for neatness, and over the past several months the details of keeping the house clean and organized seem to have slipped away from them. Jim scrubs the bathrooms and packs the dishwasher as full as it can stand, while Frank empties load after load of their clothing into the washer and attacks a series of stains on the living room floor that neither of them remember making. Jim can’t help but smile a little, even elbow-deep in dirty dishes, because he knows things will be just the same with his mom the day before Frank comes home, if a little bit easier because Spock and his mother _do_ know how to be neat.

Jim is standing on a kitchen chair, putting the last of the drinking glasses away, when he hears the familiar rumble of his mom’s ‘car pulling up out front. He jumps down and is running as soon as his feet hit the floor, tearing through the house and out the front door.

“Mom!” he shouts, hardly noticing the second ‘car pulling up behind hers as he throws himself into her arms.

“Oof! Hey there, Jimmy.” She bends down to hug him tight, and he breathes in the smell of her shampoo and the strange, recycled-air smell that always clings to her for a few days after she gets back from a mission. “I missed you, sweetie. Have you been good?”

“Uh-huh.” He hugs her tighter for just a moment, then lets go. “Did you see any Klingons?” he asks, as he always does, and she laughs as she stands up.

“Nope, no Klingons. But look who I _did_ find at the shuttle port.”

Jim’s eyes go wide as the second ‘car finally registers and he sees two dark-haired figures climbing out. His mom steps aside to wrap Frank in another fierce hug, and Jim is left staring at their visitors, arrived two days earlier than planned.

“Jim.” Spock’s mom pulls him into an embrace just as firm as his own mother’s. “It’s so good to see you! I know you weren’t expecting us just yet. I swear, our ship’s pilot must have been trying to break a record; we’ve never made the trip so quickly.” She leans back to hold him at arm’s length and beams at him. “You’ve gotten so big! And so handsome, too. I’ll bet you’re already breaking hearts at your new school, aren’t you?”

Jim’s mom pulls her away a moment later, and Jim is left facing Spock at last. He looks the same as ever, with his shiny cap of hair and pale skin, his calm expression and dark eyes that warm as soon as they meet Jim’s. It’s the closest that Spock will get to a smile, Jim knows, for at least a week.

“Hello, James,” he says.

Jim’s heart gives a funny sort of twisting flip, and all the doubts he’s had over the past day and a half suddenly scatter like space dust. He knows his grin probably looks stupid, if not downright insane, but he can’t bring himself to care.

“Hey, Spock,” he says back, and his mind starts formulating plans as his palms begin to sweat.

****************  


Three days later he’s pleading with Bones through the view screen. “Our moms keep saying that they won’t let us go without you with us. Please, you’ve gotta talk them out of it!”

“I’m a teenager, not a miracle-worker,” Bones gripes. “How am I supposed to convince them to let you two go to the city by yourselves when you’re only ten? And what in the world can possibly be so important that it’s this big a deal, anyway?”

“I _told_ you, I want to take Spock somewhere, and it won’t be the same if you come with us!”

“Well why the hell not?”

Jim doesn’t answer, but he feels his face getting warmer. And the more he blushes, the wider Bones’s eyes get, until finally he bursts out laughing.

“Well I’ll be. Can’t believe I didn’t . . .” He breaks off, laughing again. “All right, Jimmy. But I want you to remember this, you understand? Because one day I’m going to be calling for some reciprocity.”

“What’s reciprocity?”

“Look it up,” Bones chuckles. “And put your mom back on.”

Half an hour later, Jim and Spock have permission to take the transit shuttle to Des Moines, and the very next day their mothers drop them off at the base with worried looks and demands that they keep themselves safe.

Jim isn’t nervous.  Not at all.  
  
It’s important that he continues to remind himself of that, because from the way his hands are shaking it’s clear that _they_ think he is.  It’s ridiculous.  This isn’t even a date, not really.  Probably not.  He hasn’t talked to Spock about it, in any case, and even at just shy of eleven years old he’s pretty sure that both people have to agree before it counts as a date.  Which isn’t to say that he’s about to ask Spock what he thinks.  That could be . . . bad.  Potentially, that could be _very_ bad.  Better to keep his mouth shut and dry his sweating palms on his jeans, and remind himself again that James Tiberius Kirk doesn’t get nervous over something that might not even be a date.  
  
“James.”  He looks over, resigned by now to the way his heart has decided to start doing girly little flips whenever Spock says his name like that.  It used to annoy him, he knows, but he can’t quite remember why.  “Do you intend to tell me where we are going?”  
  
Jim’s grin is wide.  “Nope.”  The shuttle swerves to the left and they grip their seats tightly.  “Wanna guess?  You know, speculate?”  
  
Spock tilts his head down a fraction in the Vulcan version of an exasperated sigh, and Jim has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing at it.  “I am well aware of the definition of the word ‘guess’, James.  And no, I think that I would rather not.  If you would just—”  
  
He doesn’t get to finish his thought before the shuttle jostles again and an automated voice tells them to prepare for docking.  Jim hates this part; public transport shuttles always feel like they’re on the verge of falling apart when they connect to port.  This time is no exception and he’s feeling slightly queasy by the time they unfasten their seatbelts and file out of the cramped space with the others.  
  
It’s only a short walk to their destination.  The guard at the door makes them wait while he scans the tracking wristbands that—as Bones had reminded their mothers, who are probably checking their communicators for updates every thirty seconds—are required for all unaccompanied minors,. Then they’re inside, and Jim is nearly bouncing on the balls of his feet as they walk up to the front desk.   
  
The woman sitting there looks impressively bored.  She tells them that admission is five credits apiece for children twelve and under, takes the money and hands them a map along with a second set of wristbands without bothering to cast more than a cursory glance in their direction.  Spock still looks skeptical until they pass through the double glass doors and they get their first good view of the aquarium.  
  
Jim watches in delight as Spock’s eyes go wide as he tries to take everything in at once.  Staircases climb in gradual spirals around enormous tanks of water that are filled with fish in all the colors of the rainbow.  Paths branch off in several directions, signs at their junctures directing visitors towards particular attractions.  Jim already has a mental list a mile long of all the sights he thinks that Spock will like.  He looks through the map anyway, and the first thing he sees sends everything else tumbling out of his head.  
  
“Sharks!”  He is bouncing now, his excitement too great for his body to contain.  He jabs a finger at the blurb at the side of the page.  “They’re feeding them in five minutes, let’s go!”  When Spock looks too overwhelmed to move on his own, Jim rolls his eyes and grabs his hand.  “Come _on_!” he says, and sets off, tugging an astonished Vulcan along behind him.  
  
Jim is pretty sure that the shark feeding is the coolest thing he’s ever seen, even if it makes him almost as queasy as the shuttle landing.  After that, there’s the manta rays—they actually get to help feed those for a credit apiece, which is easily the best way Jim’s ever spent his allowance— and the Xenooceanus tour, and the penguin show, and the documentary on an extinct species of whales that Spock insists on watching, and by the time they’re standing in front of a display of tropical fish, Jim is willing to admit that okay, yes, this might _maybe_ be a date after all.  
   
And if this is a date, then it’s all right for Jim to reach out, with his heart racing and his palms threatening to start sweating again, to slowly link his fingers together with Spock’s.  The hand in his jerks in surprise.  Jim sneaks a glance over; Spock’s cheeks are flushed green, his eyes firmly fixed on the tank in front of them, but he doesn’t pull his hand away.  
  
Someday soon, Jim thinks as he looks at Spock, he’ll work up the nerve to kiss him.  But for now he turns back to the water, content to simply stand, holding Spock’s hand and watching the fish as they swim slowly by.  
  
  
  



	12. Daffodil Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Because the kid who’s coming is _Vulcan_ , for heaven’s sake. There’s nothing fun about Vulcans. They’re logical and boring and, if Jim’s being completely honest, just the tiniest bit scary. And this is the boy who will be in his house, sharing his room, sleeping in his brother’s bed. How is he even supposed to start trying to make friends with someone so . . . well, alien?_

**Author's Note:** The first part of my [](http://help-japan.livejournal.com/profile)[**help_japan**](http://help-japan.livejournal.com/)  fill is being beta'd right now, and while I was waiting I figured I might as well work on something else, and then this chapter was finished. o_O  Weird how that happens sometimes.  Possibly it happened this time because it contains THE VERY FIRST THING I EVER WROTE FOR IT OMG.  Back when I had just discovered [](http://momo-girlie.livejournal.com/profile)[**momo_girlie**](http://momo-girlie.livejournal.com/) 's art and was in full-on squee mode and decided I _had to write something about it right now_.  I sent it to her, and we started talking about turning it into a proper fic, and then it like got into the medicine cabinet and took a bunch of growth hormone or something and I don't even know why that was in the medicine cabinet in the first place but that's pretty much what happened.  Yeah.  So, if you're still reading this madness, know that a line/partial scene from this chapter was inspired by _Let the Right One In_ , and I will give epic bonus points to anyone who can spot it.  Also, for those keeping track, [this](http://anubis-admirer.deviantart.com/gallery/?offset=48#/d2eesmc) is the picture that inspired the whole thing.  (Also, [this](http://29.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lfuypgkf011qe2rwfo1_400.jpg) is more or less Ta'an.  FYI.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Spock sits with his school work spread over the table in front of him, books and PADDs filled with differential equations and warp physics and ancient history. The rest of the house is sleeping; but as happens once a week without fail, Spock finds that his circadian rhythm has left him entirely awake. This is, he assures himself, for the best, as it provides him with the necessary opportunity to see to his studies. Though James is, on the whole, in turns supportive of and fascinated by the amount of work Spock must accomplish to keep up with his peers, he often seems to find it difficult to keep from becoming a distraction. Were he here with Spock now, he would almost certainly attempt to pull him away from his studies and into another, far more frivolous activity.

But James is asleep, and waking him up simply to prove a hypothesis would be highly illogical.

Spock turns back to his work, but his attention is caught instead by the brightly-colored fish swimming in the glass bowl that he has situated at the end of the table. Over the past three days he has carried the bowl with him whenever possible. His mother has allowed him to do so with a certain amount of bemused tolerance, but James has seemed extremely pleased at Spock's attachment to his present.

He has been studying for some time now, Spock decides. A break would be permissible.

It is remarkably pleasant to watch her swim, as Spock had immediately discovered when James had presented him with her. Her body is a deep, dark blue that lightens in her tail and along the delicate fins at her back that wave gracefully as she moves, or whip dramatically when she gives a sudden burst of speed. The fins below her belly fade from blue to purple and finally to red. He has named her Ta'an.

James had been quite adamant that she required a name, despite Spock's eminently logical argument that as she could not hear him speak it and respond, a name seemed entirely superfluous. However, James had insisted, and eventually Spock had given in. Unpracticed in the exercise, Spock is still not entirely certain if his choice of the Vulcan word for 'gift' is appropriate. James had declared it a fine name, however, and Spock is willing to defer to his expertise.

Reluctantly, Spock turns back to his PADD. His peers, he knows, will be working as diligently as ever in his absence. Though his emotional outburst and the ensuing physical altercation had put a stop to the overt torments that he had endured for years, Spock is not so foolish as to believe that the attitudes behind them have changed. He is therefore determined to provide them with no further ammunition. His test scores are among the highest in his age group; soon, he will surpass them all. In order to do that, however, he must focus.

When he feels James's sleeping thoughts seek him out he permits himself a small smile, and refocuses his attention on his notes about the Time of Awakening.

He has moved on to spatial ruptures by the time James shuffles bleary-eyed in from the kitchen, a bowl of cereal clutched in his hands.

“'Morning,” he says, and his jaw stretches in a wide, dramatic yawn. He smiles when he sees Ta'an, and Spock very nearly smiles back.

“I trust you slept well,” Spock says politely, closing his notes and setting them aside.

“Yeah. Weird dreams, though.” James peers at the neat stacks of Spock's work. “I think there was something about Vulcan. But we were like . . .” He gestures vaguely with his spoon. “Warriors or something.”

Spock raises an intrigued eyebrow. “I have been studying ancient Vulcan history,” he offers. “Perhaps that influenced your dreams. Were we at war?”

James is focused on his cereal now, and shakes his head without looking up. “No. We were just . . . sort of hanging out.” He lifts the bowl to his mouth, drinking the leftover milk in one long swallow. “Where are our moms?”

“They are still in your mother's lab, though I believe they will be leaving soon. Leonard is due to arrive by ten o'clock.”

“Bones!” James sits upright in his chair, letting the bowl fall to the table with a clatter. “Right. I forgot.”

“You forgot that Leonard is meant to be supervising us today?” Spock asks doubtfully.

“Not exactly. But . . .” James glances over his shoulder in the way that Spock has learned means he is afraid of being overheard. “Okay, you can't tell our moms.”

“I believe they are already aware, as they were the ones to request his assistance.”

“Not _that_ ,” James says, rolling his eyes, and Spock enjoys a wholly illogical sense of accomplishment at his successful teasing. Then James leans forward, and Spock finds himself mimicking the move. “You can't tell them that Bones is having a girl over later,” he finishes in a low voice.

Spock tilts his head slightly, confused. “Why not?” he asks, echoing Jim's tone as well as his posture.

“Because our moms probably wouldn't like it. And because I sort of promised.”

“If our parents would be opposed to the idea, why would you agree to conceal it?”

“ _Reciprocity_ ,” James says, rolling his eyes, and shrugs. “Besides, it's not like we really _need_ a babysitter. We can look after ourselves. C'mon, Spock, promise you won't tell?”

Spock hesitates. Despite James's claim, it is quite clear to Spock that one of them, at least,  _does_ require supervision. On the other hand, he does not believe that Leonard would be so irresponsible as to allow them to come to any actual harm. However, if Leonard does prove to be too easily distracted by his friend, Spock believes that his own influence should be enough to keep James from doing anything egregiously foolish, such as jumping off of the roof or lighting anything on fire.

“Very well,” he says, sitting back with a nod. “I promise.”

Spock watches Leonard carefully when he arrives an hour later, attempting to discern if anything in his demeanor seems to indicate a higher level of irresponsibility than normal. The older boy seems as self-possessed and alert as ever, however, and Spock allows himself to relax. Nevertheless, he assures himself, he will be on alert for anything resembling potentially dangerous behavior on James's behalf and be ready to deal with it accordingly.

“We'll be gone for most of the day,” Jim's mother is saying as Leonard nods his understanding. “You have the number for the 'Fleet offices, and we'll call if we're going to be late. Jim's upstairs getting dressed—I hope. Do I have everything?”

“You've checked your bag five times, Winona,” Spock's mother says without bothering to hide her amusement. “Honestly, I don't know why you're so nervous; it's the same presentation you've given every week for the past month.”

“Never for the brass before,” Jim's mother mutters. “Something you should empathize with,” she adds, pointing an accusatory finger, “after your meeting with the Terran Educational Secretary.”

“Fair enough.” Spock's mother's eyes turn to him, then, and she gives him a soft smile. “Be good, and keep an eye on Jim while we're gone.”

“Thought that's what I was here for,” Leonard grins, and both women laugh.

“It can never hurt to have more than one person looking after my son,” James's mother says.

“I don't get in _that_ much trouble.” They all turn as James clatters his way down the stairs, a faint frown turning down his mouth, and their mothers laugh even harder.

“Be good, Jimmy.” James's mother drops a kiss on the top of his head as he sulks. “You too, Spock,” she chuckles, and James rolls his eyes and retreats to the living room.

“Good luck,” Leonard offers as they leave the house. He turns away as the door closes behind them, and starts when he finds Spock still watching him. They stare at each other for a long moment. “So.” Leonard clears his throat. “I guess Jimmy told you?”

“He informed me that you are 'having a girl over later'.”

“And I guess since they didn't say anything about it that you didn't tell your mom or Jim's.”

“I promised James that I would not.”

“Okay.” Leonard nods uneasily. “Well.”

“It is fortunate that I am here,” Spock says loftily, “to help 'keep an eye on him'.”

Leonard's grin is bright and nearly—nearly—as infectious as James's. “I guess you're right about that.”

With one last uncertain, measuring stare, Spock leaves to join his friend.

James has already taken over a good portion of the floor, lying on his stomach at the edge of the rug with a box of crayons and several sheets of paper scattered over the hardwood beyond. Spock settles next to him and chooses a sheet of his own, quite content to spend a quiet morning drawing. Every so often he glances over at James, who is working with his lower lip caught between his teeth in a look of intense concentration. The sight sparks something warm in Spock's stomach, and he has to look away to regain his full composure. There is a pencil sitting on the floor as well, though James seems to be ignoring it in favor of the crayons. He will, Spock decides as he picks it up, draw something for James, as thanks for Ta'an.

They have been working quietly for twenty-three minutes—quite possibly, Spock believes, a record for James—when a knock at the door sends Leonard jumping up from his chair. Spock and James exchange a glance, and a moment later Leonard returns with a pretty girl next to him. Her dark hair is shorter than Leonard's and her green eyes warm with her smile. She is entirely unfamiliar to Spock.

“I'm just gonna give Eliana here a tour,” Leonard says. He glances hesitantly at Spock before turning a suspicious eye on James. “Do you think you can keep out of trouble for ten minutes?”

“I have so far,” James shoots back cheekily, which apparently does little to appease Leonard's worries.

“They'll be fine,” Eliana says, smiling as she tugs at Leonard's arm. “They're just sitting here coloring.”

“Yeah, Bones,” James grins, pushing up to his knees. “We'll be fine.”

Despite his obvious misgivings, Leonard allows himself to be led away, and Spock watches as James's eyes linger on the doorway well after the older children are out of sight. He wonders, abruptly, if James finds Leonard's friend attractive. The thought does not sit particularly well with him; the girl is considerably older than they are, and clearly not an appropriate object for James affections.

“I do not recall meeting her before,” he says carefully, and James starts.

“Ah. No.” He glances over at Spock, his cheeks tinted faintly pink. “She's Bones's new girlfriend.”

Spock remembers the girls previously introduced as Leonard's girlfriend, and has determined that the word indicates some level of romantic attachment. It is even less appropriate, then for Jim to harbor any romantic interest of his own towards her. Feeling that it would be impolitic to mention that, however, Spock keeps his thoughts to himself.

“Leonard has new girlfriends quite often,” he says instead, and James nods.

“Yeah, well.” James scratches at his nose. “Most people don't really have long-term relationships until they're way older.”

“I see.” Spock turns purposefully back to his drawing and resolves to put the thought from his mind unless it proves relevant.

He can feel James's eyes on him now as he works. If he concentrates, he can feel his friend's attention through their link, as well. It is . . . odd, but not unpleasant.

“Do you want to go steady?” James says suddenly. He doesn’t blurt it out; in fact, Spock gets the impression that this is something for which he has very carefully prepared himself. But still, it’s sudden. Not to mention perplexing.

“I’m afraid I have yet to acquire the meaning of that particular idiom, James. Please elaborate.”

James’s very serious expression breaks into a brief grin at this mention of Spock’s peculiar hobby. “Going steady. Ah . . .” His mouth twitches as though unsure what shape to take next, and his fingers fiddle absently with the crayon he still holds. It’s an uncharacteristic display of nerves, and Spock finds it . . . fascinating. “What I mean is . . . um, well . . .” He firms his jaw and sets his shoulders then, determined to face this with the same boldness that he shows at all other times. “It means I’m asking you to be my boyfriend.”

“Oh.” Spock draws another careful line, connecting the graceful sweep of the prow of the _Constitution_ -class starship to the bulk of the body as he considers. He has seen older children—Leonard and his agemates, mostly—pairing off in such a way, but he still finds the designations “boyfriend” and “girlfriend” to be disturbingly vague. He’s not completely sure what James is asking, and will not answer until he is. James, unsurprisingly, seems unfamiliar with the concept of patience.

“That’s it?” His fingers tighten around his crayon, and his shoulder moves in a single sharp, angry jerk. “Okay, fine. You know, if you don’t want to, you could just say so,” he mutters, bending back over his drawing.

“But I did _not_ say so.” Spock permits himself a small frown, rewarded when his friend’s head whips back up again and bright blue eyes widen at the show of expression on his face. Spock nods decisively then, and turns his attention back to his drawing. He is still considering. “If I were your boyfriend,” he asks after a moment, “does that mean that you would then be my girlfriend?”

“No.” James snorts, a happy, laughing sound, and indeed when Spock looks up again there is a small, mysterious smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. “We’d both be each other’s boyfriends. Because we’re both boys,” he says as though confiding something to someone terminally slow. Spock’s reaction is a disdainful lift of his eyebrow.

“And what would being ‘boyfriends’ entail, exactly?”

“Well.” Some of James’s confidence seems to diminish as he visibly searches for an answer. “We’d hang out together. Date—you know, do fun stuff,” he clarifies before Spock can even ask.

“We do that now,” Spock feels compelled to point out, and James frowns.

“It’s not the same.”

“Why?” Spock is not trying to be difficult; he is sincerely curious. James seems to understand that, and Spock reflects with a certain amount of warmth that such instinctive understanding is almost always the case with this one young human boy. “I fail to see the logic in altering the name for our relationship when the relationship itself remains unchanged.”

“It’s not just that. It’s saying, you’re the one I want to spend time with the most. It’s saying that I . . . that I like you better than anyone else. And . . .” His cheeks begin to turn an interesting shade of pink, but his gaze doesn’t drop from Spock’s. “If we were boyfriends, we would maybe, like . . . kiss sometimes.”

Spock can’t help his frustrated sigh. “We do that now,” he repeats, his turn to speak slowly and clearly as though to a small idiot child.

“We . . . I . . . no we don’t!” The astonished reply is very nearly a squeak, something that Spock can’t help but find amusing. Especially when paired with his friend’s wide-open eyes and mouth, an expression that makes his resemblance to Ta’an closer than he would find flattering.

“You have kissed me on multiple occasions,” Spock insists primly, and watches James’s mouth open and close like a fish's.

“I _have not_!”

James looks and sounds genuinely affronted now. Spock blinks once before he smoothes his face into a calm mask. Perhaps he has misunderstood; perhaps kissing Spock is something that James does not find desirable, after all. Perhaps he had been only willing to tolerate it, because it was expected. Spock had known that he should not have attempted to tease. James may be adept at such maneuvers, but clearly even after so many years Spock is far from being able to attempt such human interaction.

“I think I’d remember if I kissed you,” James is meanwhile going on without pause. “You don’t just . . . it’s not something you just _forget_. The most I’ve done is hold your hand a couple times, and—”

“That,” Spock informs him, pleased with the ice that he can hear in his own voice, “is how Vulcans kiss.”

James falls silent; utterly, completely silent. Despite his irritation and embarrassment, Spock can’t help but watch in fascination as the pink in James’s cheeks brightens and spreads until his entire face is a vivid red.

“I didn’t . . . I thought I was just . . . hand-holding for humans is just, kind of basic,” he explains weakly.

“I,” Spock says stiffly, if not as coldly as before, “am not a human.”

“Yeah, I know.” James’s eyes flick up to Spock’s ears, but the look isn’t distasteful or disdainful as it is for many of their Terran peers. “I’m sorry,” he says contritely; Spock nods graciously to acknowledge him, as he was taught is polite. “I’ve messed it all up,” James continues morosely. He’s dropped the crayon by now, and he stares down at his empty hands. Spock is able to resist his curiosity for three seconds . . . four . . . five . . .

“What have you ‘messed up’, James?”

The use of his name has James smiling again, though it is not as bright as Spock is used to. “I was supposed to be courting you,” James says sheepishly. Spock lifts both eyebrows, then; thanks to Leonard this, at least, is an Earth term with which he is familiar.

“Oh.”

“It was all Bones’s stupid idea,” James grouses. “He said that if I was going to ask you out I had to lay some groundwork first. I was supposed to be leading up to the whole thing, not accidentally making out with you.”

The salient facts are clicking into place in Spock’s head like tumblers in a lock. James had not known the significance of taking Spock’s hand as he did. That simple truth resolves fully half of the matters upon which Spock has been meditating for the past week. His friend’s confession serves to answer the rest.

“That is why you took me to the aquarium,” he surmises. “And why you gave me Ta’an.”

“Well . . . yeah.” Jim’s blush hasn’t completely died down; his cheeks and the tips of his ears are still vibrantly pink. “Leo said that courting someone means you make sure to do things they like, and maybe get them some little presents so they know you care about them. I’m allergic to most flowers,” he says sheepishly, “and besides, they didn’t seem very . . . I dunno, logical, I guess. But you like fish, so . . .” He shrugs. “And it’s not like I didn’t have fun or anything,” he adds quickly. “I thought the aquarium was really cool, actually.”

Spock considers carefully before he decides that he probably understands. “You wish for us to continue as we have been, excepting the titles of ‘boyfriends’ and more _intentional_ kissing,” he clarifies, just to be sure.

“That about sums it up,” James says, though he doesn’t sound terribly hopeful anymore. Spock nods.

“That is acceptable.”

It should perhaps grow tiresome, seeing his friend constantly gaping at him in such a manner. Yet Spock finds himself hard-pressed to sublimate a giggle. “Are you saying yes?”

“I am. We are now . . . boyfriends.”

The grin that stretches itself across James’s face is blinding in its intensity. It is a look of pure glee, of simple, unadulterated joy.

“Cool,” is what he says.

Spock is unsure what to expect, or what is expected of him. After a moment of waiting he is nearly ready to turn back to the haven of his drawing when the smile on James’s face dims slightly and his hand comes up to hover hesitantly between them.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks quietly.

The question, the hesitation, is so unlike him that for a moment Spock is thrown. But his fingertips tingle in anticipation, and he raises his own hand as he has seen his parents do. James follows suit, three fingers curled in with the first two extended, and their fingers meet in the space between them. There is barely contact at first, just the slightest brush of skin against skin that nevertheless makes Spock’s eyes drift partly shut. James’s lips tremble open, just slightly, and then his fingers curl cool and dry and careful around Spock’s.

The sensation is electric. Spock’s heart is beating hard against his side, faster than is normal by approximately 23.9%. James seems similarly effected: his fingers are trembling faintly against Spock’s skin, and his pupils are slightly enlarged.

Spock is sure that he will never again be so bold as he is in this moment, when he is filled with warmth and affection for the boy beside him. His father taught him at a very young age that any relationship requires both give and take, reciprocity on both ends. It is the idea at the core of diplomatic relations. James has offered him the ease of the familiar in their first kiss, the comfort of Vulcan tradition.

So it is that their second kiss is one entirely human, as Spock leans forward and presses his lips very gently against his friend’s.

James has barely begun to lean into the kiss when the sound of footsteps in the hallway make them pull swiftly apart. Spock can feel the tips of his ears heating, and he leans quickly over his drawing again to hide the flush he is certain is creeping over his face. James's gaze is still a tangible weight on him, his warm, brilliant grin just visible from the corner of Spock's eye. After a moment he turns back to his paper as well, picking up a worn blue crayon just as Leonard and Eliana walk back into the room.

“See?” Spock hears her say quietly, and glances up to see her nudging Leonard with her shoulder. “They're _fine_.”

Leonard merely grunts suspiciously and drops down onto the sofa, earning a squeal of delighted protest when he pulls Eliana down with him. “You boys set to keep colorin' for a while?”

“Nope.” James makes a few final swipes with his crayon and sits back on his heels. “Finished.” He gestures to it, smiling almost shyly up at Spock now. “I drew it for you. If you want it.”

Spock peers down at the paper, ignoring Eliana's excited, “How  _cute_ !” as he examines James's drawing. Two simple stick figures smile back up at him, the ends of their legs resting on a thin swath of scribbled green while a pair of clouds and what Spock presumes is the sun—though why James has given it a face is beyond Spock's understanding—float above their heads. The figure on the left has a thatch of messy yellow hair scrawled on top of its head and what appears to be a copy of the same red sweater that James is wearing at the moment. The one on the right has a neat line of black hair, pointed ears, and robes the same dark grey and purple as Spock's own. Its body is drawn in with thick green lines.

“It's you and me,” James says, almost nervously, and Spock nods.

“Quite obviously.” He lifts his gaze to his friend's—his _boy_ friend's, he thinks, with a shock of excitement he can not quite repress—and let his approval show in his eyes. “It seems that we have had similar ideas,” he says, and holds up his own finished work.

James blinks at it for a moment, his eyes going wide even as his brow lowers. “Is that . . . did you draw blueprints?”

“Of the _Enterprise_ ,” Spock confirms. James still seems slightly confused, and Spock ignores the urge to fidget restlessly. “I have had to work from my memory of the ones your mother obtained for you. I had thought that, as you are fond of them and of watching the ship's construction . . .”

“This is _great_ ,” James says decisively, and Spock decides that his smile seems genuine enough to quell the vague unease that had been building within him. “Thanks, Spock. Here, we'll swap.” He holds out his drawing; as Spock takes it in return for his own their fingers slide lightly against each other. Spock keeps from flushing only through strict mental control and a pointed refusal to look directly at his friend.

“Well, if you're finished,” Leonard says, apparently oblivious to the fact that Spock's heart is attempting to beat its way through his side, “what do you wanna do now?”

Spock risks a glance at James, then, and sees the mischievous smile spreading over his face.

“What about Sardines?” he says, making his eyes wide and hopeful. Spock can very nearly see Eliana melting at the expression. “You guys will play with us, right? You can't play Sardines with just two people.”

“Sure we will!” Eliana agrees immediately, and Leonard stares at her incredulously.

“Um. Eli. I was sort of thinkin' we could . . . y'know, just hang out here while the boys play—”

“Oh, come on, Len,” she chides him reproachfully, sliding off of his lap and onto her feet. “It's not going to kill you to play one game, you know.”

“I'll even be 'it' first,” James offers, and Leonard turns a steely gaze on him.

“Oh, no you won't. If you're doing the hiding we'll never find you.”

“Fine.” James heaves a dramatic sigh. “How about Spock? You trust _him_ , don't you?”

As it transpires, Leonard  _does_ trust Spock, something that does not work to his favor when Spock wedges himself behind a large pile of boxes in the crawlspace beneath the stairs. James, naturally, finds him first, and for quite some time they crouch there quietly, shoulders pressed together as they take turns glancing at each other and then quickly away. The entire right side of Spock's body feels as though he is standing too close to an electrical current. He is unsure whether it is pleasant or not, but he makes no attempt to move away. And when James leans over to brush a soft, fleeting kiss against the corner of his mouth, Spock feels certain that that electrical current has shot all the way down his spine.

Eli finds them first, and as the space is really too small for three people Leonard finds them quickly after that. It is his turn to be 'it' then, and though he is nowhere near as skilled at hiding neither is Spock particularly skilled at seeking; he does not manage to find anyone until he follows the faint whisper of awareness at the back of his mind and opens the hallway closet to find James and the others grinning back at him.

They play for most of the afternoon, and Spock is 'it' very nearly half the time. He feels as though perhaps he ought to object more to this particular state of affairs, but objection is difficult when he and James are close enough to touch, stealing sneaky kisses with lips and fingers and struggling not to laugh. It seems to Spock almost as though he is stealing these moments, hoarding them against his return home, where he will have to be flawlessly Vulcan once again, calm and cool and emotionless. He soaks up James's touch as if he can store it up for the long months of allowing no more than the brief brush of his mother's hand against his shoulder.

By the time their mothers return Eliana has long since left, and Spock feels almost lightheaded from the flurry of the day's events. He realizes, on a distant level, that he and James are standing nearer each other than usual; he is sharply aware of how often he has to suppress the urge to reach for James's hand with his own. After such a surfeit of touch it is difficult to rein himself in again. He does not miss the fond, knowing looks that their mothers exchange, however, and manages to maintain control.

When his mother knocks on the door to their room while James is bathing, Spock is unsurprised. She settles herself on James's bed and simply looks at him for a moment, an odd mix of fondness and regret painted clearly across her face.

“You know what I'm here to talk to you about,” she says, and Spock inclines his head.

“I had anticipated that you would wish to state your opinion on the matter.”

His mother sighs softly. “Can you tell me what exactly is going on between the two of you?”

Spock straightens his shoulders and looks squarely back at her. “We are boyfriends.”

A smile twitches at the corner of her mouth. “All right,” she says slowly. “What does that mean, exactly?”

“It means . . .” Spock hesitates. “James assures me that it is very similar to how things have been up to now. We have, apparently, been very close to being boyfriends before today, though he was apparently unaware that he has been kissing me when he has touched my hands. He wishes to occasionally kiss me more intentionally, and I saw no cause to object.”

His mother raises her fingers to her lips, nodding thoughtfully. “I see,” she says eventually. “Well, that seems . . . very logical.”

Spock relaxes slightly at her pronouncement. “I believe that it is.”

“You understand, though,” she adds after a moment, “why I'm . . . concerned about the two of you developing a relationship that moves beyond friendship, don't you?”

“You do not approve.”

“Spock.” She sighs again. “I love Jim; you know I do. And I love what I see in you when you're around him. If it were up to me . . .” She glances away, and her jaw tightens for a moment before she shakes her head. “I don't want either of you getting your hopes up over this.”

Spock feels a faint wash of guilt at the mild rebuke. “I am aware of my situation,” he says. “James assures me that a committed, long-term relationship is not expected in Humans until adulthood.”

“Well. I suppose that's true. Still, I want your word that you'll be responsible with this, Spock.”

He draws himself up again, affronted at last. “Certainly, mother. Had you expected me to behave otherwise?”

“No, Spock.” His mother's expression unsettles him; it is soft, almost pitying, and he does not fully understand it. “I didn't expect anything else.”  
  
  



	13. Daffodil Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Because the kid who’s coming is _Vulcan_ , for heaven’s sake. There’s nothing fun about Vulcans. They’re logical and boring and, if Jim’s being completely honest, just the tiniest bit scary. And this is the boy who will be in his house, sharing his room, sleeping in his brother’s bed. How is he even supposed to start trying to make friends with someone so . . . well, alien?_

**Author's Note:** And so it begins!  Only four more parts and then an epilogue, which will be posted at the same time as the final chapter.  Since my hiatus while I work on my Big Bang story will be an extensive one, I've decided to parcel these last chapter out over the summer.  I know several of you were hoping for a big dump all at once, but I'm ornery like that. XD  We've also, SADLY, reached the end of the illustrations that inspired this whole business, though there are several in [](http://momo-girlie.livejournal.com/profile)[**momo_girlie**](http://momo-girlie.livejournal.com/)  's [DeviantArt](http://anubis-admirer.deviantart.com/gallery/23919882) gallery that can be seen as taking place sometime in the timeframe of this chapter.  Go nuts imagining tons of adorable situations. ^_^

 

 

 

 

 

It’s not a big deal, he thinks, picking up a pebble by his feet and flinging it away, watching as it sails through the air and down, down into the quarry until it’s lost from sight.  He’ll go home later, and he’ll see Spock then.  He kicks another rock over the edge.  The less time he has to spend in his house, the better.

It takes him by surprise, though it probably shouldn’t, when he hears the crunch of footsteps in the gravel-strewn dirt and turns to see Spock walking towards him.  Jim doesn’t think before he moves; maybe he should, but it’s summer and Spock is here and Jim’s missed him more than usual in the past week.  He steps forward, meeting his friend halfway, and yanks him into a fierce hug.

“Hey, Spock,” he mutters.  Spock’s shoulder is hard and bony, and his robes smell vaguely of some half-familiar spice.  Jim burrows closer.

“Hello, James.”  Spock’s voice sounds just a hair deeper than it used to as his arms wrap carefully around Jim’s back.  They stand like that for a time, quiet in each other’s arms.  “You were not at the house,” Spock says at last, and wow, he must he feeling really out of his depth if he’s resorting to ridiculously obvious statements of fact.  Jim has to laugh.

“No.”  He pulls away at last and rubs his hands over his eyes, wincing when he presses against fresh bruises.  “I didn’t want to hang around the house.”

“James.”  Spock’s fingers are gentle against his jaw as he holds him still, concern clear in his eyes.  “What happened?”

Jim shrugs and steps lightly away.  “Got in a fight.”

He knows what he looks like, and he wishes Spock weren’t seeing him like this.  His left cheek is still a little swollen, and a dark bruise curves its way over his cheekbone.  The knuckles of his right hand are scraped and raw; he thinks maybe Spock doesn’t notice that, but a moment later he feels fingertips skate lightly over the back of his hand.

“ _James_.”

“It’s really no big deal.  It hardly even hurts.”

“And is your doctor not possessed of so much as a basic dermal regenerator?”  Spock’s voice is sharper than Jim has ever heard it, and he looks up in surprise.  “This is unacceptable.  How long ago did this happen?”

“Yesterday.”  Jim shuffles his feet, trying to fight back the shame that’s rising in his throat.  “I didn’t want to go to the doctor.  I wasn’t really thinking; if I had been, I wouldn’t have wanted you to see . . .”  He shrugs again, a sharp jerk of his shoulders as he turns away.  “Mom told the doctor he could leave it.  She was pretty mad, I think.”

Spock’s hand closes around his shoulder and turns him back around.  “What _happened_ , James?”

“Told you; I got in a fight.”

“For what purpose?”

“Not for any _purpose_ , jeez!  I was just pissed off and this guy said something stupid and I can’t hit Frank so I hit him instead.”  Jim is flushed by the time he finishes, and he breaks free of Spock’s grip to pace away.

“Why do you wish to strike your stepfather?” Spock asks carefully.

“I hate him.”  Jim’s fingers curl into fists as he paces.  “I hate him, and I want to hurt him like he hurt her!” he shouts.  “I know she’s been crying, but she walks around like it doesn’t even matter and he’s still in the house like he hasn’t done anything and I _hate_ him.”

Spock is staring at him wide-eyed by now, and Jim feels himself deflate.  That level of anger, he’s learning, can’t be maintained indefinitely, and after a week of it his energy is pretty well depleted.

“Did he hit your mother?”  Spock’s voice is quiet, calm, but Jim can see a reflection of his own fury building in those dark eyes.

“No.”  He lets himself drop heavily to the ground, dangling his legs over the edge of the drop down into the quarry.  His heels dislodge small showers of dirt and stone when they thump against the wall.  “If he’d hit her I would’ve killed him,” he says darkly.  Spock settles next to him.

“Good.”

Jim smiles a little at that, but it fades quickly.  “He—he cheated on her.  He’s been _screwing around_ with another woman for months.”  He glances over to see Spock’s head tilted in mild confusion.  “They’ve been having sex,” he says bluntly, and Spock’s eyebrows furrow at that.

“Human marriage typically implies sexual exclusivity, does it not?” Spock asks hesitantly.  Jim snorts.

“That’s why it’s called _cheating_.”  Jim skims his hand over the ground and sends another scatter of stones tumbling over the edge and scrubs at his eyes again.  Not because he’s crying; there’s just dust in the air is all.  “He’s staying longer than he usually does so they can ‘work on their problems’,” he sneers.  “Anyway, I don’t wanna be in the house with him anymore, and Mom’s stopped trying to make me.  I’ll probably have to go back now that you guys are here, though,” he adds morosely.

“I see.”  Spock hesitates.  “James,” he says after a moment, “there is something I need to do.  Will you wait here for me?”

“Sure,” Jim shrugs.  “Not like I have anything better to do.”

“I will return shortly.”  Spock stands and leaves with a last light touch to Jim’s shoulder.

Jim falls onto his back, feet still dangling in the empty air as he stares up at the sky, seeking out bits of blue in the hazy, overcast sky.  He feels suddenly as though he’s hanging off the underbelly of the planet, like gravity might simply let go at any moment and send him tumbling into the clouds.  It’s an oddly thrilling sense of vertigo, and he digs his fingers into the dirt beneath him, grounding himself again with the feel of grit beneath his fingernails and the sharp press of rocks against his palms.

Being with Spock feels this way, Jim thinks; like clinging to the skin of the planet, always on the verge of falling.  He wonders if his mom ever felt like this with Frank.  He wonders if she ever just let go, let herself fall, believing she’d be caught.  If it had hurt very badly when she hadn’t been.

Spock would always catch him; there’s not a shred of doubt in Jim’s mind about that.  But still, he’s afraid to let go, to trust someone else—even Spock—with that kind of responsibility.

“James.”

Jim lets out a high, surprised sound as his body gives a startled twitch, and for a moment his heart leaps into his throat as he’s certain he really is going to fall.  Then he turns his head, and gravity seems to settle into place again, and he shakes the dust from his hair as he sits up.  Spock is watching him with open amusement; Jim realizes that he must have been lying there longer than he thought, if Spock is back already.

“Hey.”  He struggles to his feet, still a little bit disoriented.  “You finished?”

“I am.”  Spock raises an eyebrow at him.  “Are you well?  You seem to be having difficulty keeping your balance.”

“I’m good.”  Jim moves a few steps farther back from the edge, though, just to be safe.  “So.  What do you want to do?”

“I had hoped that you might be willing to return to the house with me,” Spock says carefully, and Jim winces.

“Is he still there?”

“Yes.”

“Spock.”  Jim feels somehow helpless.  “I can’t . . . I don’t want to be around him.”

“Do you trust me, James?”

“Yeah,” Jim says without hesitation.  “Of course I do.”

“Then come back with me.  There is something I would like to show you.”

Jim regards his friend for a long moment.  Just the idea of seeing his stepfather right now is enough to get him angry all over again, to have his hands curling into fists with the urge to lash out.  But Spock is watching him calmly, and Jim _does_ trust him, and there’s really not much to do out here anyway besides throw more rocks over the edge, so he finally shrugs again and jerks his head in a reluctant nod.

“Okay.”

Spock has ridden to the quarry on Sam’s old bike, and has Jim’s new collapsable one strapped behind the wheel.  Jim can’t help but smile as he unfolds it.  It’s not the same one he used when they were younger; he finally outgrew that one for good a couple of growth spurts ago.  Still, it brings back memories when he locks the final piece into place and the two of them start the trek back to the farm.

It’s a bit of a ride, and the shadows are beginning to lengthen by the time they make it back.  Jim’s let himself fall a little behind, nowhere near eager to get back and deal with what’s waiting for him inside.  To his surprise, however, Spock pedals around to the back of the house; Jim follows slowly, and by the time he makes it back there Spock is propping his bike up next to a tent pitched some distance from the house.

“What’s going on?” Jim asks, dismounting, and Spock straightens his shoulders.

“Our mothers would not agree to let us stay out at the quarry unsupervised, but they will allow us to sleep here so long as we are not threatened by inclement weather.”  He glances at the house.  “We will have to join them for dinner, as well, but otherwise we will not be required to go inside unless we wish to do so.”

Jim can only stare.  Through the open flap of the tent he can see sleeping bags and pillows; the bag that Spock uses for his school work; another bag that looks as though it may have several of Jim’s books and PADDs inside, and a small, neat stack of nonperishable food.  Pretty much everything they could need or want, at least for the next few days until Frank’s due to leave again.

“This is great,” he beams at Spock, and watches a faint green tinge spread over his friend’s cheeks.

“The food will likely be ready soon.  We should go inside and wash.”

Jim snorts.  “You know you like me dirty,” he says with a nudge to Spock’s shoulder, grinning when that green flush grows deeper. 

Jim feels lighter somehow; even the idea of sitting through dinner seems like only a minor annoyance now that he knows he can escape back outside for the rest of the night.  He and Spock crowd together around the bathroom sink, and Jim laughs at the surprised outrage on his friend’s face when Jim flings a splash of water at him.  They both end up rather wetter than strictly called for.  Jim refuses to let Spock change his clothes, however, determined to get the meal over with as soon as possible, and they finally make their way downstairs damp and mussed and happy.

Jim’s smile fades a little when they sit down to eat.  They’re crowded around the kitchen table instead of the dining room, and though Jim’s seated himself as far away from Frank as he can manage, he feels his shoulders stiffen every time his stepfather looks his way.  Jim doesn’t look back; he already knows what he’ll see, and he doesn’t want to watch Frank try to apologize any more.  He probably doesn’t even mean it, Jim thinks for the millionth time as he stabs his fork into a piece of pasta with more force than strictly necessary.  Frank’s only sorry he got caught, he tells himself again, and as far as Jim’s concerned that’s just too damn bad.

Dinner is awkward, to say the least.  Spock’s mom does most of the talking, helped from time to time by one of the other adults.  Jim stays resolutely silent.  Spock speaks only to answer direct questions; Jim’s not sure if it’s his natural shyness or a show of solidarity, but either way it warms him enough to make him brush his fingers lightly over the back of Spock’s hand beneath the table.

Jim’s mom releases them with a resigned sigh as soon as the dishes are cleared, and Jim bolts outside immediately, Spock following close behind.  It’s not full dark yet; the air is tinted with a blue so deep it almost seems to glow as they change into the pajamas tucked in the bottoms of their sleeping bags.  Neither of them are tired yet, though, so Jim pulls a PADD from his bag and they lie on their stomachs, sides pressed together to watch the vid Jim queues up.

When the ending credits have finished, Jim rolls onto his back and stares up at the light and shadows playing against the curved top of the tent.  He can feel Spock at the back of his head, curious but patient.  The light cuts out suddenly as Spock turns off the PADD, and Jim hears him shifting to mirror Jim’s position.

“Will you tell me about it?” Spock asks after a moment.

“Why do you want to know?”

“I wasn’t here when you found out,” Spock points out.  “Did you speak with anyone about it?  Or did you simply pick a fight with someone in the hopes that it would help you feel better?”

Jim looks over in surprise to see Spock regarding him calmly.  Part of him wants to get angry at Spock’s presumption, but . . . well, it’s not as if he’s wrong.  Jim sighs and looks back at the darkened dome of fabric above them.

“Mom came home early,” he says at last.  “Almost two whole weeks, which was weird ‘cause she was supposed to be working on refitting the _Renegade_ , and refits usually take longer than anything else.  Things were . . .”  He shifts on top of his sleeping bag.  “I dunno.  Weird.  She and Frank weren’t talking a lot; they seemed stressed out about something, but they wouldn’t tell me what was going on.  They just kept saying that I shouldn’t worry about it.

“I was over at Katy’s one day.  They kept sending me over there, or to Jonny’s, ‘cause Bones is staying at school over the summer.  Anyway I’m twelve, it’s not like I need a babysitter anymore.”  Jim thinks he feels something like a gentle mental nudge from Spock, and rolls his eyes.  “Anyway.  I was sick of having them treat me like I didn’t need to know anything, so I got Katy to cover for me and came out here.  I figured if there was anything they didn’t want me to find, they’d probably keep it here since we were still staying at the house in town until school was out.”

Jim glances through the little mesh window in the side of the tent.  There are still lights on in the house, and they line the converted greenhouse that houses his mom’s lab in warm golden light.

“I found a PADD in one of the desk drawers in her lab.  It wasn’t protected or anything; I guess she figured having it in there was enough to keep anyone from finding it.  It was the one she’d been using on the refit; it had a bunch of her notes about the modifications on there.  And there was a letter, from the woman Frank had been seeing.”

“She wrote your mother a letter?” Spock says in surprise, and Jim snorts.

“Yeah.  It was . . . Awful.  All about how they’d been seeing each other for almost a year, because Mom is always gone and he _needed_ someone.  And she said that Mom should ‘let him go’, because it wasn’t fair for her to expect him to just sit around pining for her.  Like it’s her fault Frank was sleeping around.”  Jim’s breathing heavier now, glaring up into the darkness.  “I can’t believe I used to _like_ her.”

“You know her?”

Jim nods.  “It was Ms. Taggart,” he says, unable to keep the misery and betrayal he still felt out of his voice.  He can almost feel Spock’s frown.

“Your old teacher?”

“Yeah.”  Jim takes a deep breath.  “I probably shouldn’t have . . . I went to the school to find her.  I yelled at her a lot; I wanted her to say that it had been a mistake, that it was from some other Anna Taggart, or that it was all a joke, or even just that the letter was about someone else and got sent to my mom by mistake.”

“She did not.”

“She told me she was sorry,” Jim sneers, “and that she hadn’t wanted me to _find out this way_.  She said she cared about Frank and just wanted him to be happy.”  He takes a deep breath, horrified when it catches in his throat.  “She said he’s only staying with my mom because he feels _obligated_.”

Spock touches the back of Jim’s hand, and a frisson of comfort goes through him at the contact.  “If that were true,” Spock says, “I don’t believe that he would still be here.”

“That’s what my mom said.”  Jim blinks rapidly, willing away the angry tears that have formed in his eyes.  “She and Frank were waiting for me when I got home; Ms. Taggart called them when I left.  My mom told me they were trying to work things out, that they’d been going to see a counselor and that they were both going to try to be home more, and wouldn’t that be nice, and I just don’t get it,” he says furiously.  “I don’t understand how she could just _forgive_ him like that!”

“Perhaps she simply does not wish to abandon her wedding vows.”

“Well, that makes one of them, then.”  Jim’s throat feels tight; he can barely get the words out.  “He promised he’d take care of her.  He _promised_.  He was supposed to keep her from getting hurt; he told me he would, he said my dad had died to keep us safe and that he’d make sure we stayed that way.  Well, my _dad_ wouldn’t have cheated on my mom.  He was loyal, and honorable, and he never, _never_ would have done something like that.”

He swallows heavily.  “Mom says it’s not fair to compare them like that.  She thinks I should forgive him, like she’s doing.  She says he broke things off months ago, that he’s _sorry_.”

“You do not believe that to be the case, however.”

“He’s sorry he got caught,” Jim says tightly, repeating it out loud the way he’s been repeating it in his head.  “If my mom hadn’t gotten that letter he never would’ve told her.”

Spock is quiet for a long moment.  “Perhaps he simply didn’t wish to hurt her.”

It’s the same thing Jim’s mom had said, but it somehow sounds almost reasonable coming from Spock.  Still, Jim is in no mood to admit it.

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” he says instead.  “I’m tired.”

“Then you should sleep.” 

Spock’s voice is quiet, and there’s a feeling of warmth and comfort radiating from his mind into Jim’s, and suddenly Jim does feel absolutely exhausted.  His body feels heavy as his eyes begin to slide closed, but he manages to shift his hand until his fingers tangle with Spock’s.  There’s a soft intake of breath next to him, but Spock doesn’t pull away.  Instead, he turns his hand to press their palms together, and Jim slides into sleep as their fingers lock firmly together.

He’s braced for the nightmare when it comes.  He has it at least once a week now, even more when he’s stressed; in the past few days, he’s had it almost every night.  Jim doesn’t know which is worse—the times when he’s blind, or the ones when he can see.  He can see now; the dream has only gotten more vivid over the years, like it’s growing in power.  The rotting field around him is vivid, slimy red and black stalks of some sort of grain that’s no longer recognizable.  To his left a swarm of flies is buzzing thickly around something hidden by the putrid stalks, and Jim is afraid to see what it is.

A hand squeezes his tightly, and he glances sharply to his right to find Spock standing beside him, looking around them in distaste.  He turns to tilt his head at Jim, who realizes with a jolt that they’re almost eye-to-eye now.

“Let’s find somewhere more hospitable, shall we?” Spock says, and with a tug at Jim’s hand begins to lead the way.

When Jim’s eyes open in the morning, he’s not sure if the warmth he feels is from the sunlight hitting the tent or just a memory of the bright blaze of Shi’Kahr’s main market.  He stretches, noticing as he does that he’s alone in the tent.  It’s not surprising; Spock has always been an obnoxiously early riser.  Jim sits up and opens the tent flap to let in the morning air and begins to sift through the food that’s tucked into the corner.  He’s munching on a piece of jerky that he still can’t quite believe Spock packed for him when his friend comes out of the house carrying a sturdy mug of tea.  Spock ducks down to enter the tent and Jim, grinning, sneaks a kiss.

Spock’s nose is wrinkled as he settles on the end of his sleeping bag.  “You taste like jerky,” he complains, and Jim laughs.

“I’ll go in and brush my teeth in a minute.”  He plucks another piece out of the bag and bites into it with exaggerated relish.  Spock appears to stop just shy of rolling his eyes and sips his tea calmly.

“Is there anything in particular you wish to do today, aside from consuming dried cow flesh?” he asks dryly.

“Dunno,” Jim shrugs, chewing thoughtfully.  “There are some okay-looking movies showing in town; we could go see one of those.”

“Define _okay-looking_ ,” Spock says suspiciously.  Jim just grins.

They finally manage to agree on the Zephram Cochrane biography that’s playing, because looks like it has enough historical significance to appeal to Spock and enough explosions to appease Jim.  It’s also one of the few that they can see without a parent or guardian, and to Jim’s dismay Spock still resolutely refuses to sneak into something with a higher rating.  It’s too far to bike unless they want it to take all day, but at just barely fourteen Spock is old enough to operate the rented ’car with parental permission.  Jim spends the drive doing his best to distract him by pressing fleeting Vulcan kisses against any of Spock’s bare skin that he can reach, laughing when Spock protests but makes no real attempt to stop him.

It’s the start of summer vacation and the theater is crowded, and as he waves goodbye to a group of his friends he’d stopped to say hello to Jim realizes that Spock has taken advantage of his distraction to purchase passes for both of them.

“I can get my own ticket,” Jim protests.  “You don’t always have to buy me things, you know.”

“You are certainly welcome to pay for our admission next time,” Spock says with an arch look, “provided you are capable of moving quickly enough.”

“I’m just saying—”

“I enjoy doing things for you, James.  It’s something that friends do; I assume that it is true of boyfriends as well.”

“Yeah.  Well.”  Jim can feel his face heating slightly, but his lips are twitching into a smile.  “I’m getting the popcorn, then, and that freaky water you like.”

“Altair water is not _freaky_ ,” Spock says, his eyes warming at their banter, “it is—”

“Jim!” 

They both turn as one to see a pair of pretty blonde girls moving towards them.  The younger of the two has her hand lifted in a wave, and her brilliant smile grows wider when Jim smiles back.

“Hey, Tama.  How’s your break going?

“Great!  We’re staying here this summer instead of going to visit my grandparents.”  She rolls sparkling green eyes.  “It’s about time I got to have a summer that’s actually _warm_.  What about you?”

“Pretty much the same as every year.”  He glances over, embarrassed to realize that he’s just been letting Spock stand there.  “This is Spock; he and his mom are here visiting for a few months.  Spock, this is Tamsin; we, uh . . . we go to school together.”

“Nice to meet you,” she says with a small smile before turning her attention back to Jim.  “Wow, Vulcan house guests are  normal for you?”  Her laugh makes Jim smile, and he shrugs sheepishly.  “What movie are you guys seeing?”

“ _The Phoenix_.  What about you?”

“We just got out of Another Sky,” Tamsin said with a dreamy smile.  “It was _so_ romantic.  Oh, I’m so sorry!  Seriously, how rude am I?  This is my sister, Natalie.”

“Nice to meet you,” Jim offers, and Natalie grins at him.

“Nice to meet you, too,” she says.  It sounds oddly significant, and Tamsin shoots her a look Jim can’t quite interpret before turning back to Jim.

“Nat works here during the summer,” she says, brushing a fall of loose curls back from her face with a hopeful smile.  “She can get me and a friend in for free sometimes, so if you ever feel like it . . .”

Jim’s face suddenly feels a million times warmer.  “Oh.  Um.  Well, maybe . . .”

“Tama, we should let them get to their movie,” Natalie says, and Jim is suddenly sure he knows exactly what that little smile on her face is all about.

“Oh yeah!  Sorry, I really am being rude.  Um.  Give me a call sometime, Jim,” she says, and turns with one last smile to follow her sister out.

For a moment Jim just stands there.  There’s an odd sensation in his stomach as pleasure wars with guilt.  He turns abruptly away, heading for the snack bar.

“That was just . . .”  He fumbles with the words, turning the popcorn bucket in his hands as he waits for their drinks.  “I mean, Tama’s really nice, but . . .”

“James.”  Spock is looking at him with something like affection.  “You are not your stepfather.  There is nothing you need to explain.”

Jim feels the tension drain out of him.  “Thanks.” 

He wants to say more, but he’s not sure how, so instead he just leads the way into the theater.  They settle with the popcorn between them, and when the last of it is gone they abandon the pretense and simply join their hands on the armrest between them.  It’s an effective distraction through most of the movie, though Jim is aware enough to cheer or groan along with most of the theater whenever something blows up.  Spock tolerates it with good grace, though every so often he seems to feel the need to distract Jim with a lazy stroke of his fingers across Jim’s knuckles.  It’s still astounding to Jim how sensitive his hands are to Spock’s touch, something that he puts down to their link when he takes the time to think about it.  Right now, though, it’s enough to enjoy the thrill of getting away with kissing each other right under everyone’s nose without worrying about why it feels good.

After the movie lets out they stay in town for most of the day, getting lunch at the diner with the vegetable hash that Spock likes and wandering through the shops until Jim insists they visit the shipyard.  The frame of the ship is nearing completion; in another few years it should be ready for them to start constructing the hull.  It’s already beautiful, and as Jim stands there with Spock he knows that he can see it, too.  Jim’s thoughts are so full that by the time they go home he’s too distracted to feel more than passingly awkward during dinner.

It’s warm and clear that night, so he and Spock drag their sleeping bags out onto the grass to watch the stars.  Jim is calm and content, but something niggles insistently at the back of his mind and keeps him relaxing fully.

“What are you working up to say?” he finally asks Spock, and can tell by the small, startled twitch next to him that he’s guessed right.

“I have been thinking about what your former teacher said,” Spock says at last.

“Oh.”  Jim’s stomach clenches.  “How come?”

“Some of the things that she said . . . I do not believe that they apply to your Frank and your mother; however . . .”  Spock hesitates for another long moment.  “When we became boyfriends, my mother had reservations that I am only just beginning to understand.”

It feels like something heavy is weighing on Jim’s chest.  “Your mom doesn’t like the idea of you being my boyfriend?”

“I don’t know if that is entirely accurate,” Spock admits.  “However, we are apart for a great deal of the year.  Vulcans do not typically _date_ ; when we are apart, I am not presented with any other possibilities for social engagement.  That is not the case for you.”

“I wouldn’t cheat on you,” Jim insists angrily.  He turns his head to face Spock and finds his friend already regarding him, his expression hidden in the dim starlight.

“I know that, James,” he says gently.  “However, it does not seem fair of me to expect your fidelity during the span of time that we are apart.  Most especially in another two years, when I will have to study on Vulcan year-round.”

“The VSA exam.  Right.”  They’ve talked about it a few times, but Jim has always done his best to forget again.  He’s spent more summers with Spock now than he spent without him, and the idea of him not being here in a couple of years just seems intrinsically _wrong_.  “But you’re applying to Starfleet, aren’t you?”

“It is logical to cultivate multiple options.  My admittance to Starfleet Academy is not assured.  And it is . . . expected that I will apply to the VSA.  When I have received my results from both I will tell my parents of my desire to enlist.”

“Still—”

“James,” Spock says firmly.  “Can you tell me, in all honesty, that you will not be lonely when I leave?”

Jim wants to protest that of course he won’t be.  He has friends; lots of them.  But before he can speak he remembers the faint brush of Spock’s lips against his, the pleasant buzz of their fingers meeting, the pleasure of simply being close to him.  He will miss that, he knows, just like he did between last summer and this one.

He thinks of Tamsin then, of blonde hair and green eyes and warm smiles, and for just a moment he wonders what it would be like to feel one of those smiles beneath his lips.

A flood of guilt hits him almost immediately, and his stomach roils.  He feels a careful touch against his temple a moment later, Spock’s fingers and the flash of Spock’s mind in his.

“I do not want you to feel this when we’re apart.”  Spock’s voice is soft, calming, and just a little bit sad.  “I would not have you distressed on my account.”

“Are you breaking up with me?” Jim asks, his voice thicker than he would like.

“No.”  Spock’s hand lowers again.  “Not so long as I’m here.  But perhaps, when I leave, it would be better to return to the way we were before.”

“Friends?”

“Friends, and _sa-kai_.  I will always be yours, James.”

Jim had to smile then, despite everything.  “All right.”  He takes a deep breath, turns back to the stars and nods.  “When you leave.”

There’s a long stretch of silence between them.  Then, “James?”

“Yeah?”

“Would you like to play?”

Jim’s grin stretches wide across his face, and he scans the sky for a moment before lifting a hand to point.  “There.”

As he lowers his arm again Spock reaches out to take his hand, hot fingers sliding between his.

“That is where we will discover a new species,” Spock says as their joined hands rest between them, “on a new planet, in a stretch of space where none have ever gone before.”

 

 


	14. Daffodil Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Because the kid who’s coming is _Vulcan_ , for heaven’s sake. There’s nothing fun about Vulcans. They’re logical and boring and, if Jim’s being completely honest, just the tiniest bit scary. And this is the boy who will be in his house, sharing his room, sleeping in his brother’s bed. How is he even supposed to start trying to make friends with someone so . . . well, alien?_

**Author's Note:** Well, I may be failing on making actual progress on my Big Bang (oh, real-life drama, you do have the _worst_ timing), but at least I have this ready to parcel out so that my journal doesn't have a complete fic-drought!  The aforementioned RL drama has sapped my brainpower, so I'm afraid I can't be particularly witty, or even informative.  It's possible that I'll think of something to say here and add it in later.  In the meantime . . . um, it's a chapter!  Stuff happens!  FIC! \o/  **ETA:** Oh yeah.  Since it caused a little bit of confusion in beta: Katy and Katie are in fact two different people.  I just suck at thinking up new names, and am forgetful.  OKAY NOW ON TO THE CHAPTER!

 

 

 

Spock smooths the folds of his new robes again and sends a narrow-eyed glance at his mother.  Her eyes are fixed on the road in front of them, but he thinks he can see a certain tightness around her mouth, as if she’s repressing a smile.  She stays quiet, however, and after a last careful look Spock turns back to the PADD in his lap.

He is not nervous, despite what his mother seems to think, and is pleased that she has at least finally ceased insisting otherwise.  There is, as he has told her repeatedly, nothing for him to be nervous _about_.  They are merely going to visit James and his family as they have done for nearly every summer since he was six years old.  It is so familiar as to be routine; certainly nothing to cause him concern.

If anything, he is more relaxed now that they are on Earth than he had been on Vulcan.  His latest growth spurt has left him feeling stretched and clumsy, still unused to the new length of his limbs and the curious sensation of regarding the world from an unfamiliar height.  Terran gravity, always a mere novelty to him before, is suddenly a blessing.  Its lighter pull leaves him feeling, if not graceful, then at least capable of regulating his body without giving the impression that he has recently suffered a debilitating blow to the head or spine.

Spock marshals his thoughts, returning his attention to the letter on the screen.  Sent over two weeks ago, it is the last letter he received from James before they left Vulcan.  They have not spoken face-to-face since James commed just after Christmas, and though he has avoided admitting as much, Spock is eager to see his friend again.  Enough that he has read the letter on the screen five full times since receiving it, and is now able to recite its contents from memory. 

He knows that at the time of writing this James had been dating a girl named Joelle for several weeks; given the length of his prior two relationships this year, Spock does not expect that this one lasted far beyond the date of James’s letter.  His friend’s professed plans to find employment, however, may have weathered the interim.  If so, Spock will be able to use the time to focus on his studies.  It would be an ideally logical use of their time, actually, something that he tells himself again as something perilously close to disappointment tries to rise in him.  It will be his last summer on Earth until, if all goes according to plan, he enters Starfleet Academy in just over two years, and James has assured him many times—thirteen, to be precise—that they will spend as much time together as possible over the next two months.  The last such assurance appears at the end of the letter on Spock’s screen, and it is on those words that his eyes are fixed as they make the final turn onto the drive that leads to the Kirk farmhouse.

As the ‘car begins to pull to a stop Spock quickly turns off his PADD and tucks it carefully into his pack.  He does not smooth his robes again, though he does reflexively tug the ends of his sleeves down, a holdover instinct born of wrists left too long bare by successive growth spurts.  These robes are newly-tailored, however, purchased when the Healers determined him unlikely to grow any further for some time yet, and the fabric falls to the perfect length without his assistance.

The front door is already opening as Spock climbs out of the ‘car.  He hears the clatter of feet down the steps and turns to see James jogging towards them, a smile of greeting already spreading over his face.  Spock takes a moment to bask in the warmth in his bright blue eyes—eyes that are growing wider with every step James takes.  Bracing himself for one of his friend’s customarily enthusiastic hugs, Spock finds himself growing suddenly uncertain as James slows to a halt in front of him and makes no move to touch him at all.

“Hello, James,” he says cautiously, drawing himself up straighter, uncomfortably conscious of the fact that his new height has left him taller than his friend for the first time since they met. 

James’s eyes widen even further, and Spock is beginning to wonder if he has somehow done something wrong when James shakes himself and manages a dazed-looking smile.

“Wow.  Spock.  You got, um.”  James’s eyes travel up and down Spock’s body, flicking up to meet Spock’s gaze again with a look that suggests that James has forgotten he has ever seen Spock before.  “Tall,” he finishes after a moment.

Spock lifts a single eyebrow.  “That is a common effect of reaching puberty, even among Vulcans.  You did say that you had _passed_ your biology unit this year, did you not?”

James laughs at that, looking more like himself again, and Spock allows himself to relax.

“Yeah.  I just . . .”  He laughs again, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.  “I’ve never been _shorter_ than you before.”

“Jimmy.”  Both boys startle slightly.  Their mothers have apparently finished greeting each other, and Spock’s mother is moving towards James with a smile and open arms.  “ _Look_ at you!” 

She enfolds him in a tight hug, and Spock can not help watching with a faint trace of envy, though he quickly suppresses it.  It has been some time since his mother embraced him in such a manner.  At his own request, he reminds himself sternly.  Vulcans do not indulge in such physical displays, a fact of which he is almost painfully aware when they are at home.  Now, with rich Terran air filling his lungs, Spock is finding it difficult to remember why it’s necessary to maintain such strict personal boundaries.

“You get more and more handsome every time I see you,” Spock’s mother is saying warmly, curving her hands around James’s shoulders and holding him out at arm’s length.  “Oh,” she says softly.  “You look just like . . .”  Her gaze darts quickly to James’s mother, and she pulls him in for another hug.  “You look wonderful.”

“Let’s get your things inside,” James’s mother say quickly, “so you can get settled in.  Jim, help Spock, please.”

“Sure.”  James shoots him another odd look and nervous smile.  “C’mon, man.”

Spock is finding James’s behavior increasingly confusing.  He can not seem to decipher it, and it is becoming difficult to suppress his frustration.  He even goes so far as to attempt to read James’s feelings through their link, but he is stymied by a sense of slowness, as though he is pushing through something thick and sticky as he attempts to access James’s mind. 

The sensation is so unexpected that it takes Spock a moment to realize that James is attempting to shield from him.  He seems to be doing so instinctively; the block is thin and unstructured, and Spock knows that he can easily break through it if he tries. 

Is this why James has neglected to touch him so far, Spock wonders?  He feels certain that his touch telepathy would tear through this shield like a _le-matya_ ’s claws through paper.  A brush of skin would be all it took; only a moment of contact, and he would know.

The fact that James wishes to shield from him is more effective than the block itself, however, and Spock makes no further attempts to breach it.  He can still feel his friend’s mind connected to his; if James wishes for greater privacy, Spock will not deny him that right.

“I hope that’s the last time that happens while you guys are here,” James is muttering as they collect the remaining baggage.  Spock freezes for a moment, an apology half-formed on his lips when James’s look turns wry.  “Don’t get me wrong; I love your mom, but I’ve had more than enough of the _Oh my god, you look just like him!_ ”

Spock allows himself a moment’s relief that James is either unaware or willing to over look Spock’s attempted intrusion into his mind.  “Look like whom?” he manages to ask, and sees James’s jaw set slightly as they step onto the porch.

“My dad.”

Realization hits Spock sudden and swift.  “I see.”

“It’s all because of that stupid movie.”  James wrestles the front door open, banging his way through with the heavy luggage, and Spock follows close behind. 

He knows what James is talking about, of course.  Dewitt Takach, the man who had written and directed _The Phoenix_ and _Augments_ , is considered a well-respected filmmaker even among Vulcans, and _Twelve Minutes_ is said to be his most accurate and dramatic work yet.

“You didn’t care for the film?” he asks, uncertain, and James shakes his head.

“It’s not about that.  I haven’t even seen it; I thought about it a few times, but as soon as I do people are gonna know, and they’re gonna want to talk about it, and about my dad, and . . .”  He shakes his head.  “I just don’t wanna have to deal with all that.”  He pauses at the foot of the stairs to look back at Spock, wrinkling his nose in disgust.  “Do you know the producers actually sent Mom tickets to the premiere?”

Spock weighs what he knows of James’s mother, lifts a skeptical eyebrow.  “That seems foolishly optimistic of them,” he offers, and James actually laughs.

“No kidding.  It’s like . . . people think just because it was so long ago, she should be over it by now.  But she isn’t, not really, and now all of a sudden the _Kelvin_ ’s all anyone here can talk about,” James says.  “She says it was like that in the beginning, too, when she first came back.  Reporters showing up all the time to try to talk to her, everyone in town wanting to hear about what happened.”

“I see.”  Spock makes no attempt to hide his frown, and takes a sneaky, secret delight in the surprise on James’s face.  “Have you been solicited for interviews as well?” he asks after a moment, already promising himself that no one will be harassing his friend so long as he is there.

“Nah.  I mean, a few at the beginning, but Mom and Frank chased them off if they showed up at the house, and I got good at avoiding the ones who showed up at school.”  James rolls his eyes again and begins to climb the stairs.  “Jo kept saying I should just let them talk to me, tell them what it was like growing up without my dad, but . . . I dunno.  It seemed like I’d be selling out his memory or something, and besides, I just didn’t want to have to deal with any of that.”

“In that case, I must say that your decision seems quite logical.”

James grins over his shoulder at him, and Spock suddenly feels as though he is lighter even than the planet’s gravity can account for.

“Thanks; I thought so, too.”  James turns forward again as they reach the top of the stairs.  “I’m gonna take these to your mom’s room; you can go ahead and dump your stuff.”

James is already heading off down the hallway, so Spock follows his suggestion and carries his own luggage into the bedroom he and James share.  Very little has changed, he notes; there are more piles of books than toys now, and new striped blankets on the bed have replaced the worn old solar system-patterned ones.  A Starfleet recruiting poster still hangs beside James’s bed, however, and photos of nebulae and galaxies cover most of the remaining wall.  It feels quite illogically like coming home, Spock thinks as he looks around.

He has begun to unpack his things when he hears a sound in the doorway and turns to find James standing there, his eyes fixed on Spock with startling intensity.  It strikes Spock abruptly how very brightly _blue_ those eyes are, so blue that Spock can almost believe he has never truly seen that color before now.  Illogical.  He is quite familiar with the color; quite familiar with James’s eyes, as well, though it is possible that in the months since they last saw each other they have become more deeply-set.  His jaw has certainly grown stronger and squarer than Spock remembers, his shoulders broader.

“So we have dinner tonight, like usual.”  The moment breaks and James steps into the room, though Spock is almost certain that the pink flush coloring James’s ears is matched by the heat he can feel at the tips of his own.  “Um.  I think your mom is making something with the stuff she shipped to us.  I did allergy tests for everything and nothing came up positive, so that ought to be fine.”  He seats himself on the edge of his bed, bouncing his leg with pent-up energy and not quite looking at Spock.  “Tomorrow I’m out working at the Torney stables until noon, but after that I thought we could go into town and hang out with Jo.”

It is the second time James has mentioned that name, the second time Spock has felt a vague sense of unease about it, and he puts two and two together quickly enough.

“I assume,” Spock says, hanging a set of his robes in the closet with more attention that may be strictly necessary, “that when you say Jo, you are referring to the Joelle that you mentioned in your last letter?”

“Yeah.”  From the corner of his eye Spock can see James shifting restlessly on the bed.  “She’s my girlfriend.”

“I see.”  Spock moves on to the empty chest of drawers and begins to fill the lowest one with his sweaters.  “You have been seeing her for quite some time.”

“Yeah.  I guess.  We’ve been going out for a little over a month.”

Spock glances at his friend.  “She is the one who suggested that you grant interviews about your father.”

“She did, yeah.”  James frowns slightly.  “But it wasn’t like she was being malicious or anything; I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.  Once I explained why I didn’t want to do it, she backed off.”

Spock nods.  “I am pleased to hear it.”

“You’re gonna like her, Spock.  Really.”

James seems hopeful and determined, and despite the vaguely queasy feeling in his stomach, Spock nods.

“I am certain you’re right,” he says, and hangs another set of robes in his half of the closet.

As it transpires, however, James could not have been more wrong.  Joelle is attractive, in an overly-processed sort of way; her long dark hair is straight and shiny, her makeup is perfectly applied to highlight her large blue eyes, and though he has no interest in Terran fashion Spock easily recognizes the quality of her clothes.  The way her nose wrinkles in distaste as he and James approach, however, is immediately unappealing.

“Ugh.  Jimmy, I thought you promised to shower before you came out.  You smell like horses.”

“Sorry, princess,” James grins, and wraps an arm around her despite her squealing, half-hearted protests.  “Tornado got out again this morning and I had to spend an extra half-hour getting the burrs out of his coat.  Didn’t have time to shower and meet you on time.  Unless you’d rather I was late?”

“Well, at least you changed your clothes,” she sniffs, and glances at Spock as if seeing him for the first time.

“Oh!”  James grins sheepishly as he drops his arm.  “Sorry, man.  Jo, this is my friend Spock.  Spock, this is Jo.”

“So you’re Spock.  Jimmy talks about you _all_ the time.” 

Her smile is bright, but Spock does not miss the way her eyes narrowed suspiciously.  She extends her hand, and James reaches out for it before Spock is required to think of a way to politely decline the gesture.

“He doesn’t shake hands,” James says, casting a vaguely apologetic glance Spock’s way.  “Vulcan thing.”

“Oh.”  An elegantly sculpted eyebrow lifts.  “My mistake,” she says coolly; Spock inclines his head.

“Indeed.”  James’s snort earns him a glare, and Spock reminds himself that he is supposed to be making a positive first impression.  “No offense was taken, however,” he amends.  Then, after a moment’s consideration, “I have been anticipating the opportunity to meet you, Jo.”

“Um.  Thanks.”  She seems slightly mollified by the closest he could come to a compliment.  “Call me Joelle, though,” she adds.  “Jimmy’s the only one who uses that stupid nickname, and only ‘cause I can’t get him to stop.”

“Stop calling me _Jimmy_ and I’ll stop calling you Jo,” James says.  Joelle turns to him with a smirk and reaches up to wind her arms around his neck, apparently no longer concerned with how he might smell.

“Aww, you _like_ it when I call you Jimmy,” she nearly purrs. 

Spock looks away, unable to watch what is, to a Vulcan, an unthinkably intimate public display.  From the corner of his eye he sees James pull her arms away and step back.

“We’re still meeting everyone else, right?”  Spock thinks that there may be a slightly hurried note in James’s voice and is  distracted yet again by a surge of frustration that he can’t confirm that through their link.  “The movie starts in a few minutes anyway.  Let’s go.”

‘The others’ turn out to be a group of nearly a dozen people between his age and James’s, some of whom Spock has met before and some who are entirely unfamiliar.  He quickly learns that most he has not met are friends of Joelle and her older sister Padisa, though there seems to be a small amount of overlap between that group and James’s friends.  Together they are exceptionally loud and boisterous as they move into the theater, and Spock finds himself momentarily overwhelmed.  He and James have occasionally, in years past, met with a handful of his friends from time to time; to be thrust quite suddenly into such a large group of them so soon after his arrival, however, is slightly disorienting.  Feeling as though he is being swept along by a living tide, Spock finds himself ushered into the theater and eventually seated at the end of a row with James next to him.

Spock has little interest in the movie; from what he can tell it involves a group of adults purporting to be adolescents on a recreational interplanetary trip.  His attention is far from engaged by the action on the screen, however.  Instead he finds himself remembering the times that he and James sat together in the dark last summer, hands tangled loosely together on the armrests between their seats.  A quick glance is sufficient to assure himself of what he had already suspected: it is Joelle’s hand that James is holding now, her thumb drifting lightly over the side of his palm.

The image is still occupying his thoughts that evening, when they have moved on to a restaurant and he finds himself sitting between Katy and Jonny while Ainsley tells him about an obscure new sport called Parrises Squares.

“I got to see a demonstration when we went to Risa over winter break,” she’s saying eagerly, tucking sun-streaked hair behind one ear.  “I wanted to play, but the volleyball team had semi-finals at the beginning of the year, and I didn’t want to get hurt.  It looked pretty violent.”

Spock’s participation does not seem to be required for the conversation to continue; a fortunate state of affairs, as his attention is currently engaged elsewhere.  James is seated at the end of the table, with Joelle’s chair so close to his that she is very nearly in his lap.  Brian and Katie are seated nearby, and the two girls are engaged in a whispered conversation that Spock can nevertheless hear quite clearly.

“I can’t believe that’s _Spock_ ,” Katie is hissing; Spock can feel her eyes on him, and it takes a great deal of self control to keep from turning to meet her gaze.  “He got _hot_.”

“Whatever,” Joelle says disdainfully.  “He’s all right, I guess, if you’re into the frigid type.”

“He’s not frigid; he’s _mysterious_.”

“Hey,” Brian protests.  “Boyfriend sitting right next to you.”

“Uh huh.  Jim, come on, back me up.  Spock got totally sexy, didn’t he?”

Spock feels every muscle in his body go preternaturally still for a moment as he waits for James’s answer.  When it comes it is so quiet that even with his excellent hearing Spock can hardly make it out.

“He, uh.  Yeah, he looks . . . good.  I guess.”

“Oh _come on_.  He’s better than just good-looking, he—”

“Okay, I’m bored,” Joelle says sharply.  “Can we talk about something besides Jimmy’s pet Vulcan?”

Spock is required to answer a question about Vulcan sporting endeavors at that moment, and misses the details of James’s response aside from the low, irritated tone of his voice.  In an attempt to salvage his own peace of mind Spock deliberately tunes out anything more from that portion of the table.  Resigned as he is to a night spent listening to the finer points of a sport of which he has never heard, he is pleasantly surprised when the conversation turns to strategy and Ainsley admits a fondness for Kadis-kot.  They are still debating the virtues of a group match versus one-on-one play when James flags down his attention.

“Hey, Spock.”  He glances briefly at Ainsley.  “We’ve gotta get back.”

They leave to a chorus of protests and goodbyes, and the night outside seems oddly quiet after such a constant aural bombardment.  The drive back to the farm is spent mostly in silence; Spock drinks it in gratefully, content to simply sit with the low thrum of awareness at the back of his head.

“So,” James says after several minutes have passed, and Spock turns to see him glance quickly his way and then back to the road.  “That was probably kind of . . . intense.”

“That is . . . not inaccurate,” Spock allows, pleased when James grins.

“Sorry about that stuff when we first met up with Jo,” James says awkwardly.  “She’s always like that around people I used to date, like she’s threatened just having them around.”  He rolls his eyes.  “It won’t be like that the whole time you’re here, though, I promise,” he says, glancing quickly at Spock again.  “I mean, Jo’s . . . you know, I can’t just stop spending time with her, but we’ll have lots of time to hang out together, you and me.”

They pull up to the house, and Spock uses the distraction to structure his thoughts.  He does not especially want to say what comes out of his mouth next, but he feels as if he should.  Still, it takes him until they reach James’s bedroom before he manages to speak.

“I imagine that you will wish to spend time alone with her,” he says carefully, but the rest of his words stall in his throat when James turns to him with a frown.

“I’m not gonna just abandon you to stay here by yourself.  Unless . . . I mean, I know you and Ainsley were talking earlier . . . if you want to hang out with her you can just say—”

“I would prefer to spend time with you,” Spock admits.  “However, I do not wish to interfere—”

“Don’t worry about it.  I hardly get to see you, and it’s your last summer here.  Jo’ll understand.  You’re my best friend.”

“She is your girlfriend,” Spock feels compelled to point out.

“Yeah, well.”  James frowns again slightly.  “We’ll just see how things go, okay?”  He shuffles his feet.  “I think she was right, though; I do smell like horses.  I’m gonna take a shower.”

Spock nods and begins to change his robes as James leaves the room.  This day has been confusing at best, and two to three hours of meditation will be of assistance in sorting through the thoughts that have been plaguing him.  Unbidden, his mind returns again to the sight of James’s hand joined with Joelle’s, the way their fingers had fit together.  He recalls sitting downstairs several years ago, watching as James had blushed and stammered as he explained that for Humans, holding hands was a basic, preliminary step.  What he had seen tonight did not seem basic to Spock.  His own fingers begin to tingle in the remembered sensation of cool, dry skin sliding against his, a sense memory so strong that he can hardly believe it isn’t real.

Spock is still staring at his own hands when he hears James’s footsteps in the hall and realizes that he has yet to finish dressing.  He fastens the last closures quickly, finishing the final one as James walks through the door.

“Forgot to grab my pajamas,” he says sheepishly, clutching at the towel wrapped around his hips.

Spock can only stare.

He is aware of James’s appearance in pieces, as though his mind is incapable of processing the whole without overloading.  Skin already bronzed from the sun and pink from his shower, covered in a thin sheen of moisture.  The faint curve of muscles where Spock remembered none before, across his shoulders and chest and down the long lines of his arms.  Hair spiked with water, glistening in the soft glow of the light overhead and shedding droplets that roll in slow, lazy trails that follow the line of his spine.  Slim hips wrapped in a damp white towel, old and worn enough to cling.  Spock’s eyes catch on the swell of James’s posterior and he turns away rapidly, fighting for composure past the hot, slippery knot that’s forming in his stomach.

“Your hair’s all messy,” Spock hears James say fondly, and he reaches up blindly to smooth it back into place.

“I . . .”  Spock’s mind catches abruptly on what is going on behind him right now and his words grind to a halt, drowned in thoughts of James removing his towel no more than three feet away.  “I require meditation,” he manages at last, grateful to hear that his voice reflects none of the confusion he currently feels.

“Do you need me to clear out?” James asks.  Spock hears the slide of cloth over skin and takes a moment to regulate his racing heartbeat.

“That is unnecessary.”  He turns to see James pulling a t-shirt over his head.  “It may take some time; I will go downstairs.”

“Okay.”  James nods and picks up one of the books stacked on his desk.  “I’m gonna read for a while, I think.”

“Very well.”  Spock stands frozen for a moment longer before he remembers to move his feet.

“Hey Spock?” he hears as he approaches the door, and he stops; turns.

James is sitting on the edge of his bed again, hands resting on his knees with his book held in a tight grip.  He seems to be focusing somewhere just over Spock’s right shoulder.

“Ainsley . . . they’re sort of off and on, but you know she’s Katy’s girlfriend, right?”

Spock raises an eyebrow.  “Yes, I am aware.”

“Okay.”  James nods, stretching out on the bed.  “Cool.”

Spock waits for another moment, but when it becomes clear that James has said all he wishes, he turns again and quickly makes his way downstairs.

The adults are still sitting in the living room, talking and laughing softly, so Spock heads outside.  It is quiet at the back of the house, and he settles easily in the soft grass.  He has forgotten his meditation lamp, he realizes, and glances up at the light shining out of James’s bedroom window.  Spock can not go back up there, not with his mind and emotions still in turmoil; he will simply have to do without.

He closes his eyes and lets his thoughts fall away, focusing at first on his physical state.  Long, deep breaths pull in the scent of turned earth and green plants, and the oxygen-rich air calms his frantic brain.  He draws his focus more deeply inward, bringing his frantic heartbeat under control.  His breathing slows.  His body relaxed, Spock turns to his mind.

It takes time to bring order back to his thinking.  Each thought, each memory is carefully examined and filed away.  Only once he has done so does he allow himself to observe them as a whole, but careful deliberation has not changed what he had already known he would find.

He had expected, he realizes, that James would be unattached upon his arrival; that the time between Spock’s visits would prove to have been a mere hiatus, James’s relationships with others trivial distractions until Spock’s return.  Illogical and unfair though such thinking is, he recognizes the truth of it.  He does not wish to share James with anyone else.  During his absence, it had seemed necessary to ensure that his friend’s Human need for physical and emotional contact was being met.  Now, however, Spock is here.  He is here, and James should have no need for anyone else.

The blatant hypocrisy of it does not escape him.  At the center of his mind, his bond to T’Pring lies coiled like a sleeping snake, waiting only for the heat of his burning blood to stir into wakefulness.  What right has he to expectations or demands of James’s attention when this waits for him?  _None_ , comes the answer back, and he knows the truth of that as well.

And yet . . .

And yet, he thinks as he slowly surfaces into the conscious world again, his blood may _never_ burn.  The Healers believe that there is very little chance it will, that his Human blood will  very likely save him from the fires of his Time.  If so, if he is truly _not_ as Vulcan as he endeavors to be, might he not seek something more . . . Human?  A mate dictated not by the cold logic of necessity, but by desire?

He and James can not, Spock knows, share a full mating bond.  It is a dangerous thing between two males, and more often than not leads to the death of one or both partners when the flames take them, spreading from one mind to the other until neither recognize anything but a rival.  He will not risk James in such a way, will accept nothing less than absolute certainty that such a thing will never come to pass.  The Healers can not give him that.  But that is only biology; though Spock may be bound to her, may even one day burn for her, he knows that he will never be T’Pring’s while James Kirk is in the universe.

James’s window has gone dark, and as Spock walks towards the house he reminds himself that his internal conflict is a moot point.  However he may desire James, however he may wish to claim him as his own, the fact remains that James is unavailable, and their situation remains unchanged.  For the next two years, Spock’s studies will keep him tied to Vulcan as he readies for his entrance exam for the Vulcan Science Academy.  Perhaps, when James has joined him at Starfleet Academy, Spock may attempt to win his friend’s affections once more.

Two years, to a Vulcan, is not so very long.  Spock repeats that to himself until he very nearly believes it before he returns to the house, calmer if not happier.  No matter, he reminds himself as he climbs the stairs and slips quietly into the bedroom; Vulcans are unconcerned with personal happiness.

 _What about_ half- _Vulcans, huh?_   He gazes down at his friend’s sleeping face and seems to hear James’s voice in his mind, teasing and light across the years.  _What about them?_

Unable to answer, Spock turns away to prepare for bed, and sleep.

 

 


	15. Daffodil Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Because the kid who’s coming is _Vulcan_ , for heaven’s sake. There’s nothing fun about Vulcans. They’re logical and boring and, if Jim’s being completely honest, just the tiniest bit scary. And this is the boy who will be in his house, sharing his room, sleeping in his brother’s bed. How is he even supposed to start trying to make friends with someone so . . . well, alien?_

**Author's Note:** All right, guys, don't say I never did anything for you. ^_~

 

 

 

“Altair,” Jim snaps, shoving at the heavy head nudging his shoulder.  “Quit it.  I told you, I don’t have any treats today.”

The horse ignores the admonishment, still staring hopefully after him, like an overgrown puppy, as Jim heads into the stables.  Jim grits his teeth.  It’s not her fault; normally he has an apple or a handful of carrots for her, and he’s happily stood and brushed her coat until it shone.  She’s used to the attention, he knows.  But today Jim is in a mood, and all he wants is hard, punishing work, the kind that makes his muscles ache all day afterwards.

His argument with Jo last night had been awful.  Everything had been fine until he’d said he had to go; in retrospect, he probably should have known better than to mention Spock at all, let alone tell her he had to leave because he felt bad about leaving his friend alone for so long.  Jim can still see the way Jo’s eyes had narrowed, hear the bite in her voice.

 _“Fine,_ go _.  You got what you came over for, right?  Go back to your little Vulcan blow-up doll; you care more about him than you do about me, anyway.”_

Things had gotten really nasty after that.  Jo had only gotten angrier when he hadn’t denied the accusation, but how could he?  It was true and they both knew it, though Jim had at least had the sense not to say that.  Meanwhile, he had been furious about the way she had talked about his friend, and telling her so had been like throwing water on a grease fire.  They had snapped and snarled at each other until Jim was ready to just break up and be done with the whole thing.  That suggestion had had Jo apologizing with tears in her eyes, begging him not to go.  She’d always been very persuasive when she wanted to be, and after another twenty minutes of tearful apologies, promises to try her best to get along with Spock, and an I’m-sorry handjob, Jim had left somewhat dazed and somehow still in possession of a girlfriend.

It’s been the same pattern for weeks now, Jim thinks morosely as he shovels out Tornado’s stall.  It seems like they spend all their time arguing, and making up, and arguing again.  Most of the time he doesn’t even know why they’re still dating.  But every time it seems like things are getting close to ending, they . . . don’t.  Jim always finds himself agreeing to give their relationship another chance, despite the fact that all he really wants is for things to be over.

He knows that he probably ought to just break up with her.  He’s tried, sort of, but he doesn’t really know how to do it.  Things with Tama and Seth and Regan just kind of ended on their own, petering out naturally after a few weeks.  Jim has never actually _ended_ anything before, never been the one to put a stop to a relationship, and he’s not really sure he knows how.  Even with Spock—

Jim feels his heart give a moronic little leap, and scowls.  Can’t he even think his friend’s _name_ without turning into a complete mess?  It’s not like that with them anymore, he reminds himself.  Spock is too logical to want to play at being boyfriends when they’re apart most of the time; and besides, Jim’s seeing Jo now so it doesn’t even matter, anyway.

It would be easier, he knows, if Spock hadn’t shown up all tall and hot and gorgeous and _sexy_.  Jim leans on his shovel, taking a break as he remembers the week before. 

He’d been so excited to have his friend back that it had taken him until he was halfway to the ‘car to realize that something was different.  Spock was still Spock, still pale and serious-looking with that same goofy haircut he’d had since the first time they met.  Only it didn’t seem quite so goofy on him now; not when Jim was busy taking in the new breadth of his chest and shoulders, and the several extra inches of height that made him suddenly taller than Jim for the first time in nine years.  His jaw had grown firmer and squarer as well.  This was no longer the baby-faced boy who had snuck kisses with him in a darkened theater, but someone almost entirely new, gorgeous and alien and completely untouchable.

Quite _literally_ untouchable, Jim had realized quickly, unless he wanted Spock to know all the ridiculous, inappropriately filthy things that had jumped into Jim’s head the moment he saw him.  So Jim has been keeping his distance, which is a new and unexpected sort of torture.  He’s used to touching Spock, to playful shoves and slaps on the shoulder and resting his weight against him when they’re sitting next to each other.  Used to holding his hand, even back before it meant anything.  He hadn’t realized just how often they used to touch until he discovered how many times a day he has to hold himself back.  Jim feels as though his body is in constant orbit around Spock’s, as though Jim’s awareness of him goes down to his very bones, pulling at him like a strange new gravity.

Jim shakes himself and goes back to work.  He pushes himself harder, using the burn in his muscles to edge out the thoughts that keep crowding his brain.  He can’t keep thinking like this; it’s not fair to anyone, not to him or to Spock or to Joelle.  So Jim works until his shoulders are screaming and sweat is pouring off of him in rivers.  He’s filthy and exhausted and just about finished by the time Mrs. Torney comes out and tosses a bottle of water at him without waiting to see if he’s paying attention.  Jim catches it, barely, and guzzles down almost the whole thing while she looks around, nodding, hands on her hips.

“Well, you’re a hard worker, Jimmy, no one can argue that.  I had some reservations about hiring someone so young, I won’t lie to you.”

“Yeah, I know.”  Jim swipes at the sweat that’s trickling into his eyes.  “You’ve told me so about a dozen times.”

“You watch your mouth, young man,” she says sharply, her eyes narrowing to slits in her heavily-lined face.  “I’m old enough to be your mama’s mama; you talk to me with respect.”

“Yes ma’am,” Jim mumbles.  “Sorry.”

She regards him suspiciously for another moment before breaking into a smile.  “You’ve got some fire in you; don’t like anyone telling you that you can’t do something.  You remind me of your daddy that way.”  Jim’s stomach clenches slightly, in discomfort or pleasure he can’t quite say.  Mrs. Torney’s sharp brown eyes fix hard on him.  “A sense of independence isn’t a bad thing, son.  But you’ll wanna be sure yours doesn’t land you in trouble with someone who can and will kick your scrawny ass, you hear?”

Jim’s lips twitch into a smile at that.  It’s the first time he’s smiled all day; it feels good.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says again, and only in part because he knows full well that she probably _can_ kick his ass if she wants to.

“Good,” she nods sharply, and looks around one more time.  “You’re finished.  Get on home.”

As easily as that she seems to dismiss him from her mind, striding forward to where both of the horses are standing at the fence waiting for her.  Jim’s learned better than to take it personally; there’s nothing on two legs that Mrs. Torney cares for as much as her horses, Mr. Torney had joked with him once, and Jim learned quickly enough that it was true at least as far as teenaged hired hands were concerned.

It’s not too far to bike back home, really, but unless he wants to be completely unable to move by the time he gets back, it’s better to drive, and he’s already daydreaming about a hot shower as he starts up his speeder.  His stomach twists nervously, however, at the thought of home.  He never exactly comes back from work smelling like a basket of roses, but he pushed himself harder than usual today and the smell of the horses is a breath of fresh air compared to the way he stinks now.  Not that he ever really worried about it before Spock got here, but Jim tells himself that he just doesn’t want to offend Spock: Vulcans have a more developed sense of smell than Humans do, after all, and he doesn’t want his friend keeling over from the scent of him.

He actually almost believes it.

It turns out not to matter, though, because the rented ‘car is missing from the front drive when Jim gets back to the house.  Spock’s still gone, then.  That’s fine.  This way Jim will have a chance to shower and take care of that whole smelling-like-a-biohazard problem before he accidentally kills his friend with his stench.  This is better, really, than having Spock beat him home.

Yeah.  Definitely better.

Frank comes out of the house laden down with bags as Jim is parking his speeder.  He has to set them on the ground to get the trunk of his ‘car open, and Jim hesitates for a moment.  In the end, though, rolling his eyes at himself, he hops down and goes over to haul one of the bags inside.

“Thanks,” Frank says, surprised and a little short of breath.  “You’re back early.”

“Finished quicker than usual.”  Jim stands awkwardly for a moment, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.  “Need any more help?”

“I . . .”  Frank looks like he’s not quite sure what to say, and Jim tenses.  “No,” he finishes eventually, a tired smile crossing his face.  “You seem pretty worn-out.  I can get the rest of it.”

“Okay.”  Jim hesitates for just a moment.  Then he snaps out of whatever was holding him in place and heads inside without a backwards glance, unwilling to investigate the slight tightness in his chest.

He gathers up fresh clothes from his room before he heads to the bathroom, just in case Spock is already back by the time he gets out of the shower.  It’s difficult enough sharing a room with someone he can’t stop thinking of in increasingly inappropriate ways.  If Spock has noticed Jim’s tendency to wake . . . _enthusiastic_ in the morning, he’s been considerate enough not to mention it.  That kind of thing, unfortunately, is quite a bit more difficult to conceal when all you’re wearing is a towel, and Jim had realized right away that standing mostly naked in a bedroom with his unfairly sexy best friend was something he should probably avoid at all costs. 

Spock, of course, never forgets to take a clean set of robes to the shower with him, so at least Jim hasn’t had to deal with seeing him wet and barely clothed.

He tries really hard to remember that that’s a good thing.

The water feels almost obscenely good when he steps into the shower.  He tilts his head back, letting the hot spray rinse away the sweat and salt and dust and dirt, and for just a moment, everything falls away.  Jo, Spock, Frank; all the little irritations and frustrations that have been eating at him seem to slip from his skin as the hot water works at his sore muscles.

Jim relishes the feeling.  He’s been cold lately; not physically, but mentally somehow, and he suspects he knows why.  He remembers standing in front of the house, staring up at Spock and thinking frantically that he had to keep his thoughts to himself, to keep Spock from finding out how very much Jim was wishing at that moment that he was still free to greet him with a warm, lingering kiss.  Jim hadn’t know which prospect had frightened him more: Spock’s discomfort, or his pity.

He isn’t sure how he managed to shield their link, only that at some point in his panicked mental flailing he’d realized that Spock’s mind seemed somehow farther away, or . . . _fuzzy_ somehow, like there was something not quite solid hovering in between them.  It’s simultaneously a relief and a disappointment.  The thought of Spock discovering the direction Jim’s mind has been wandering for the past two weeks is terrifying, but it doesn’t feel right to be cut off from him like this.  It’s another type of distance he’s having to get used to, and he doesn’t like it.  Still, he reminds himself, it’s better than the alternative.

At least, Jim thinks as he works a thick lather into his hair, he hasn’t had any of his nightmares since Spock arrived.  He’s not sure just how much access his friend might have to his mind when he’s dreaming, but he’d just as soon not take the risk.  Not that he wouldn’t if he had to; just the thought of trying to get through one of those things without Spock is enough to make his stomach crawl. 

Even now, nearly six months after his last one, Jim is still afraid to go to sleep sometimes, afraid of what might be waiting for him there.  Most of the time, though, he allows himself to believe that they’re really gone.  He needs them to be; he doesn’t ever want to go back there, not even if it’s all just in his head.

When he’s clean and as relaxed as he’s going to get, Jim shuts off the water and steps out of the shower to towel himself off, glancing in the mirror as he does so.  He tries to take a critical look at what he sees.  His skin on his face and arms is getting darker, though he’s developing a bit of a farmer’s tan from wearing a t-shirt while he works.  The sun has begun to tease out bits of blonde in his hair, as well.  On the whole, his impression of himself is one that’s warm and solid and unmistakably Human.

He thinks of Spock, of pale skin and a long, lanky frame.  Are all Vulcans like that, Jim wonders?  Is that what Spock wants?  Tall, dark, logical and aloof?  Everything that Jim will probably never be?

It _doesn’t matter_ , he reminds himself, and turns sharply from the mirror to pull his clothes on over skin still sticky with dampness.

Spock still isn’t back when Jim goes back to his room to drop his dirty clothes in the hamper.  The house is quiet when he goes downstairs, as well.  Glancing out the front window he sees that the adults are all outside, gathered around Frank’s ‘car.  Jim dawdles a bit—goes back upstairs to get a book from his room, grabs a glass of iced tea from the kitchen—before he finally steps out onto the front porch.

“Jimmy.”  His mom shades her eyes with the flat of her hand as she peers up at him.  “Just in time.  Frank’s just about to leave.”

“I didn’t want to take off without saying goodbye,” Frank offers.

Jim nods, feeling frozen in place.  He can’t seem to make his feet work; he can’t even decide if he wants them to. 

“Cool,” he finally manages to say, and shuffles his feet uncomfortably.  “Um.  Have a good trip.”

“Thanks, Jim,” Frank smiles.  “I’ll try.”  He turns back to Jim’s mom, and Jim turns away when he pulls her into a hug.  “I’ll comm you before we break orbit.  Probably around ten o’clock here.”

“I’ll be here.”  They separate, and Jim’s mom presses a kiss to his cheek.  “I love you.”

“Love you, too.”  Frank gives Spock’s mom a quick hug.  “It was good to see you again, Amanda.”

“Take care, Frank,” she says, and Jim is only a little bit ashamed of the vindication he feels when she doesn’t quite return the sentiment.

Finally the ‘car is loaded and the final goodbyes are said, and Frank is gone.  Jim’s mom watches until the last of the dust has faded from the air.  Then she turns, scrubbing her hands over her face, and smiles faintly at Jim.

“Well.  What are your plans for the rest of the day, Jim?”

He shrugs.  “Hang around here until Spock gets back, I guess.  And there’s that party tonight.”

“Right, this party.”  Spock’s mom looks vaguely worried.  “Jim, are you sure—”

“I asked Spock about it, and he said it’s cool if we go,” he reminds her.  “And I already promised him we’d leave if he gets uncomfortable or bored or anything.”  He frowns slightly.  “Though Ainsley’s gonna be there, so I’m sure he’ll be just fine.”

They both look like they’re biting back smiles at that, and Jim scowls in return until Spock’s mom manages to compose her expression.

“And there will be adult supervision there?”

“Yeah,” Jim lies easily.  “Danny’s parents are gonna be home.”

“All right, then,” Spock’s mom says, exchanging satisfied glances with her friend.  “Winona, did you still want to go to town today?”

“I’m up for it if you are.”  She turns to Jim, eyeing him hesitantly.  “Amanda and I were planning to do some shopping and maybe catch a movie.  Will you be all right here by yourself?”

“I’m _fourteen_ , Mom,” Jim says, rolling his eyes.  “I’ll be _fine_.”

“You can come with us if you want.”

Jim stares back at her, mildly horrified.  “That’s okay.  I’ll stay here and just . . . wait for Spock to get back.”

“All right.”  She starts to head into the house, but hesitates when she reaches the top step.  “If you change your mind—”

“ _Oh_ my god, Mom, just _go_.”

“We’ll both have our communicators on us,” Spock’s mom says with a grin.  “Call us before you leave for the party.”

“Okay, we will, have fun!”

Laughing, both women dart inside and emerge a moment later with their bags.  Jim settles himself on the porch’s padded wooden swing and waves reluctantly when they drive off.  Moms are so embarrassing, he thinks to himself, unwilling to admit to the little flare of warmth that’s lodged itself beneath his breastbone.  Instead he puts his feet up on the railing and opens his book, ready for a distraction.

He can’t seem to focus on Basil Hallward and Lord Henry at the moment, however.  Every sudden sound has him looking up, expecting to see the rented ‘car coming up the road.  Jim wonders dimly, as he tries to go back to his book, if this is how Spock feels when Jim goes off to spend time with Joelle.  Probably not; Spock has plenty to do to keep himself busy, after all.  The mere thought of him sitting around, pining for his missing friend, is ridiculous.  In fact—

Jim is distracted from his litany of self-recrimination by the sound he’s been waiting for, and glances up to see the shiny ‘car settling gracefully in front of the house.  He lowers his eyes quickly back to his book and tries to will away the sense of eager anticipation that’s thrumming through his veins.  No need to broadcast the fact that he feels like a stupid little kid with his first crush again.  Jim doesn’t look up again until he hears Spock step onto the porch, and mentally congratulates himself on keeping his cool as he closes his book with an easy grin.

“Hey.”  He stretches his arms above his head, groaning a little at the pleasant burn in his muscles.  “How’d it go?”

“Ainsley is, in fact, an accomplished Kadis-kot player.  Her logic is quite impressive for . . .”

Jim looks up at him, curious.  “A girl?”

“A Human,” Spock corrects archly, and Jim has to laugh.  “Kathryn competed well; Brian, however, seemed more inclined to hinder our efforts whenever possible than to attempt to win himself.”

“Yeah, but don’t think that’s a strategy or anything,” Jim grins.  “He just sucks at the game.”

Spock’s eyebrows lift in mild surprise.  “You have played with him before?”

“Yeah.  Five of us used to get together every week.  But then Kara moved, and the rest of us got busy, so . . .”  He shrugs.

“I see.”  Spock looks almost troubled, and for a moment Jim is sorely tempted to try to lower the shields he’s put up so that he can get a hint at what Spock’s thinking.  The moment passes, however, and Spock is simply regarding him thoughtfully.  “I was unaware that you played.  We might have easily scheduled our game for a time when you could join us.”

Jim smiles, enjoying the warm glow that’s spreading through him.  “Nah,” he says, “it’s cool.  I mean, it’s an okay game, but I’d actually take a good chess match over Kadis-kot any day.”

“In all honesty, I feel the same way,” Spock admits.

“Yeah?”  Jim hesitates for just a moment.  “You know, I have that new tri-dimensional set that I got for Christmas.  I’ve hardly had a chance to use it, and we’ve still got a while before the party.  Maybe if you don’t have too much studying to do, we can play for a while.”

Spock hesitates, and Jim braces himself for a polite, logical rejection.  But then Spock’s lips are curving up in one of his almost-smiles, the kind that only Jim ever gets to see, and he feels so light that he has to stop himself from checking that he hasn’t floated right off the ground.

“I do not believe that my studies would suffer unduly if I were to take a break from them today.”

“Great,” Jim beams happily.  “Okay.  Wanna play out here?”

“That is acceptable.”

“Cool.  I’ll go get the board.”

Spock gets them fresh drinks while Jim runs upstairs, and before long they’re sitting on the porch’s weathered floorboards with the game between them.  A warm breeze sends the scent of fresh-mown fields washing over them, and every now and then Jim can hear Argus’s full-throated bark off in the distance.  It’s incredibly relaxing to sit there with Spock, even though Jim’s stomach gives a funny little jolt every time he looks at Spock staring intensely at the chessboard.  It feels so simple, so good to just chill out together like this, that Jim is surprised to realize that the sky is growing dark.

“Shit,” he says, “what time is it?”

“Eight thirty-seven,” Spock answers promptly, “and fifty—”

“Don’t really need the seconds, Spock.”  Jim scrambles to his feet.  “C’mon, we’re gonna be late!”

“I was under the impression that one did not adhere to a specific schedule for this type of event,” Spock says, gathering up the board and pieces and following Jim into the house.

“Well, not exactly.  But I said we’d meet Jo there at nine.  I’ve just gotta fix my hair and get changed.”

“I see.”  They head upstairs and Jim goes straight for the bathroom to try to coax his hair into suitable shape.  Spock appears at the doorway a moment later, hands clasped behind his back as he watches Jim use a dollop of gel to get that messy-on-purpose look that Jo likes so much.  “It is unlikely that we will be able to make it into town in just twenty minutes,” Spock says, and Jim snorts.

“Good thing we’re not going all the way to town, then.”

Spock’s brow furrows just the slightest bit.  “I don’t understand.”

“We’re not going to the party in town,” Jim explains calmly, running his hands through his hair one last time before stepping back for a critical look.  “That’s just a decoy.  The real party’s out at the quarry; should take five minutes to get there, ten tops.”

“James,” Spock begins, and Jim turns to clap a reassuring hand on his shoulder, careful to avoid any direct skin-to-skin contact.

“Trust me, Spock, this is gonna be way more fun.  Don’t worry.”

“Vulcans do not worry,” Spock reminds him, stepping aside to let Jim hurry past.  “However,” he adds as Jim dashes into his bedroom in search of a new shirt, “every time you tell me not to, I am tempted to start.”

Jim laughs loudly at that.  “We’ll have fun,” he insists.  “If we don’t, I promise we can come back here and watch a vid or play another game of chess or whatever you want, okay?”

The look Spock fixes him with is unreadable.  Eventually, though, he inclines his head, and at his murmured, “Very well,” Jim goes back to hunting for his favorite shirt.  He finds it at last and changes as quickly as possible, keeping his back to Spock so that he can pretend he’s neither embarrassed nor turned on at the idea of stripping down in front of his friend.  A quick glance in the the mirror on the back of his closet door, another quick fluff of his hair, and he’s ready to go.

“All set,” he says, and turns to find Spock regarding him thoughtfully once again.  “What’s up?”

“Should I alter my hair and clothing, as well?” Spock asks, almost hesitantly.

The idea of Spock with flyaway hair is—oh, well, surprisingly hot, actually.  Jim takes a moment to look him over, though, from the top of his head down to the tips of his shoes just barely visible beneath his long robes.

“No,” he says at last, and flushes, clearing his throat to get rid of the slightly breathless quality his voice has developed.  “You look.  Ah.  You look fine.”  He nods decisively and starts forward before pausing again.  “You might want to bring a sweater, though; we’re gonna be outside, and you know how easily you get cold.”

They take the speeder, and Spock declares himself _fascinated_ by the way the gel Jim has in his hair keeps the wind from doing too much damage.  Like he’s one to talk, Jim thinks to himself—when they climb down Spock’s hair settles into place as smoothly as ever.  It takes a concentrated effort of will to keep from reaching out and ruffling it into temporary disorder the way he used to do, but Jim manages it.

There are already a couple dozen people there, set up a few hundred feet back from the edge of the quarry.  Someone’s ‘car is pumping some sort of raw, thumping music into the air, and people are scattered in groups around the impromptu fire pit that someone’s dug.  Jim can smell hot dogs cooking, and the hot sweet scent of burning marshmallows.

“Jimmy!  There you are!”  Jim berates himself for the way his stomach clenches when Jo comes running up, and makes up for it by holding on tight when she flings her arms around him.  “Hey, baby,” she purrs, and tugs him down for a kiss.

Her lips taste like cherry and the faint burn of alcohol.  Jim pulls back before he gets more than that first quick taste, incredibly conscious of Spock standing stiffly at his side.

“Started without me, I guess,” he teases lightly, dropping his arms and stepping back until Jo does the same.  “Who’s holding?”

“Jordan’s older sister hooked us up; I bet if you asked real nice you could get a beer.”

“I’m okay for now.  Spock, you want anything?”

“You are referring to alcoholic beverages?”

“Yeah, he’s referring _alcoholic beverages_ ,” Jo says snidely.  “This is a party; Jimmy _has_ explained parties to you, hasn’t he?”

“Jo!”  Jim frowns and takes another step back.  “What the hell?”

“I am familiar with the concept,” Spock says calmly.  “However, as Vulcans metabolize alcohol quite differently than Humans, I will abstain.  James, if you will excuse me, I believe I will go say hello to Ainsley and Kathryn.”

He walks off, icy dignity draped around him like a cloak, and Jim turns back to glare at his girlfriend.

“Sorry,” she winces.  “You know I turn into a bitch when I drink too much.”

 _Only then_? Jim thinks, but bites back the words before they can make it out of his mouth.

“In that case I’m cutting you off,” he says instead, and though Jo pouts she doesn’t argue as she takes his hand and leads him towards the fire.

Most of Jim’s friends are there, and he tries to relax and have fun as he talks with them.  His eyes keep seeking out Spock, though, watching him talk with Katie while Brian hovers nearby.  It looks like Spock is enjoying himself, which is good.  He certainly doesn’t look like he needs rescuing; in fact, he’s hardly glanced Jim’s way since they arrived.    That’s also probably good, because Jim can feel his expression falling every time takes a step and Jo immediately follows to plaster herself against him again.  Finally, though, Brian steps in and whispers something in Katie’s ear that has her giggling and waving as they stumble away, and Spock makes his way over to the fire at last.

“Hey, man.”  Jim considers trying to move away from Jo again, but figures it probably won’t be any more effective the sixth time around than it was the previous five.  “Having fun?”

“I thought Vulcans didn’t ‘have fun’,” Jo says innocently, and her sister laughs a little too loudly.

“Maybe that’s just because they don’t have the right incentive.”  Padisa smirks around the mouth of her bottle.  “I bet if he was getting some he’d loosen up a little.  HEY!” she calls out.  “Who wants to make a man out of the Vulcan?”

“Cut it out,” Jim says with a frown, his stomach knotting a little at the stiffness in Spock’s shoulders.

“Too bad no Human in their right mind would want to get _seriously_ involved with anything that bland and boring.”  Jo’s eyes are burning into Spock’s, and Jim wonders how she can possible miss the fact that Spock’s are burning right back.

“I’m afraid your logic is unsound,” Spock says quietly.  “As a matter of fact, my mother is Human, yet she chose to marry my father.”

“Well, your dad’s like, an ambassador, right?  You guys must be totally loaded to afford a trip to Earth every year.”  Jo smirks, looking Spock dismissively up and down.  “So I’m sure she got _something_ out of it.”

For several long seconds Jim feels like he’s forgotten how to breathe as he watches the heat in Spock’s eyes blaze into an inferno.  Spock looks as though he’s barely holding back the urge to beat Joelle bloody; his hands have curled into fists, and in the firelight he seems toweringly tall and terrifying in his fury.  Then abruptly he turns and strides quickly away, and everyone within earshot seems to finally let out a collective breath.

“What . . . the _hell_ . . . is wrong with you?” Jim grinds out, tearing himself away from Joelle.  He’s staring down at her, and it feels like he’s never truly seen her before.  “Why the _fuck_ would you say something like that?”

“It was just a joke, Jim,” Padisa complains, but a single furious look from him has her eyes widening, and she takes a step back.

“Jimmy, I didn’t mean—”

“No, you never _mean_ the shit you say, do you?” Jim bites out.  “But you keep saying it anyway.  You’ve been trying to tear Spock down since you met him, and I can’t believe I let you get away with it for this long.  He’s my _best friend_ , and his mom is practically another one to me, and they _both_ deserve better than to be the targets of an insecure, self-absorbed—”

He cuts himself off before he can say something he won’t be able to take back, and Joelle glares up at him through tear-soaked eyes.

“And how am I _supposed_ to act?  You’re supposed to be my boyfriend, but you only want to keep me around so you have someone to get off with!  Do you even _like_ me, Jimmy?”

There’s a small knot of guilt in his gut, but when she reaches for his hand he can’t stop himself from jerking away from her touch.  “Not anymore,” he says roughly, and turns away.

“Where are you going?” she demands.

“To see if Spock’s okay, where do you think?”

“Don’t you _dare_.”  He shrugs off the hand that grabs his arm, and her voice goes shrill.  “Jim Kirk, if you walk away from me don’t think for a second that I’ll take you back when you come crawling!”

He sends one last disgusted glare over his shoulder.  “I wouldn’t hold my breath on that.  We’re done.”

Jim’s practically running by the time he makes it past the reach of the firelight, and he strains his eyes in the darkness trying to catch a glimpse of his friend.  He can’t do much except keep going and hope that Spock hasn’t decided to turn at any point; he’s half-worried that Spock might somehow get turned around and end up walking straight off the quarry’s edge.  It’s a stupid thought, but it helps to explain why his heart is pounding more than it should be from his near-jog.  In the end, though, Jim hears Spock before he sees him, quick crunching footsteps ahead that sound like they’re going in a circle.

“Spock?” he calls out quietly, and the footsteps stop.

Jim sees him then as his eyes finally manage to adjust to the darkness.  The sky is overcast, and the lights of the city and shipyard reflect back brighter than the stars ever do.  Still, Spock is little more than a silhouette, tall and black and so dangerous that Jim can almost taste it in the air.

“I hope that you will understand,” Spock voice says, drifting out of the dark with a growl that sends shivers down Jim’s spine, “when I tell you that I do not care to spend any further time with your girlfriend.”

“I’m so sorry, Spock.  I don’t . . . if I’d thought she’d _ever_ say anything like that I never would’ve . . . she’s not my girlfriend anymore,” he says lamely.  There’s a tension in the air; it feels like something is ready to snap, and he takes a cautious step closer.  “You, ah . . . I thought for a minute that you were gonna . . .”

“Strike her?”  Spock’s weight shifts; Jim can hear the crunch of gravel as his feet move.  “I have spent the past eight years attempting to control my emotions rather than merely suppressing them, so that I might prevent further violent outbursts.”  He pauses.  “It was, however, as you might say, a _close call_.”

“I’m sorry,” Jim says miserably.  “We can go back home, okay?”

There’s silence for a long, tense moment.  “Did you terminate your relationship with her because of what she said to me?” Spock asks at last.

“Of course I did!  Spock, you’re my best friend, and if anyone has a problem with you then I don’t wanna be around them.  I should’ve done it days ago; I let it go on way, _way_ too long.  I’m so sorry.”

“Cease apologizing,” Spock says quietly.  He takes a step forward and Jim can see his face now, though his expression remains infuriatingly unreadable.  “I would not . . . I do not wish for you to forgo something that makes you happy simply for my sake.”

Jim can’t help but snort at that.  “You’re kidding, right?  She doesn’t make me happy; she’s a witch.  I mean . . .”  That sneaky knot of guilt is back in his stomach.  “She wasn’t always.  I thought she was nice, at first.  And then . . .”  He thinks of her hands, and her mouth, and he’s glad that the night is still dark enough to hide his blush.  “I wanted to break up with her ages ago; before you got here, even,” he admits.  “Before she started getting nasty like this.”

“Why?” Spock asks, and Jim shrugs.

“Because she wasn’t . . .”  _Wasn’t you_ , Jim thinks, but he can’t say it, doesn’t have the right to. 

“James, I . . .”

The world seems to spin around them as large, strong hands suddenly grasp his head, holding him firmly still, and Jim only has a moment to feel his heart race at the sensation before hot lips close over his.

Spock’s mouth is like a brand on his, all heat and demanding possession.  Fingertips press just shy of too hard against Jim’s skull while Spock’s thumbs brush almost tenderly against the sides of his face, teasingly close to something Jim can’t quite define, and he finds himself leaning forward, kissing back eagerly as his own hands lift to close over Spock’s.  The soft noise that Spock breathes against Jim’s lips then is easily the sexiest thing he’s ever heard. 

Spock is willing to let him take the lead, adjusting to match what Jim is doing with his lips and teeth and the very tip of his tongue.  He seems like he hasn’t had very much practice doing this sort of thing, but he’s clearly eager to learn, and with a giddy rush Jim realizes that Spock probably hasn’t actually kissed anyone else before.  Suddenly Jim has to get closer, to feel more of Spock, and he steps into his space even as his mind surges out, scattering his shields like playing cards and all but crashing into Spock’s.  Spock shudders hard and gasps, gasps again when Jim’s tongue sneaks out to brush lightly against his.

“ _James_ ,” he breathes, and it sounds like a moan.  But then he’s stepping back, away, pulling sharply out of Jim’s grasp.  Jim’s eyes follow him, wide and confused as Spock moves out of arm’s reach.

“Spock?  What—”

“I apologize,” he says hoarsely.  “I had not intended to . . . I should not have . . .”

“Shouldn’t have . . . kissed me?”  Jim can still feel the heat of Spock’s lips; he’s nearly dizzy with it.  “Why not?  You want me, I know you do.  I can _feel_ it,” he says, still reeling from the sudden surge of desire streaming into the back of his head.  “And I want you.” 

It’s a ridiculous understatement; what he feels goes so, so much deeper than want.  But he knows that if he can feel Spock, then Spock can feel him, and he trusts him to understand.  He takes a careful step closer, relieved when Spock doesn’t move away again. 

“Nothing has changed.”  Heat is pouring off of Spock, warming the air between them and drawing Jim in like a moth to flame.  “I will still be on Vulcan for the next two years; we will still be apart.  And I am still . . .”  He falters when Jim reaches out to take his hands again, his breath coming harder.  “It is not fair of me to—”

Jim cuts him off by leaning up to catch Spock’s lips with his again, his heart soaring when Spock’s fingers tighten around his.  He steps up until they’re practically pressed together, losing himself in the warm, spicy taste of his friend’s mouth and the mix of need and delight pouring into his head.

“I don’t care,” he says eventually, speaking against Spock’s lips rather than pulling away.  “I don’t care if I have to wait.  I’ve never felt like this about anyone else; I don’t _want_ to feel like this about anyone else.”

“You tempt me, James.”  Spock leans in to press their foreheads together, and his hands release Jim’s so that his arms can slide around his waist.  “Quite terribly.”

“I want you,” Jim says again.  “And you know I usually get what I want.”  He nips lightly at Spock’s lower lip, grinning when he’s rewarded by the low, faint growl that vibrates against his chest.  “So you should just give in now and save yourself some trouble.”

“I somehow doubt that being with you will result in _less_ trouble,” Spock says dryly, and Jim laughs.

“You know you love it.”

“Yes, James.”  Spock pulls him closer, as happy as Jim has ever felt him when their lips meet again.  “I do.”

 

 


	16. Daffodil Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Because the kid who’s coming is _Vulcan_ , for heaven’s sake. There’s nothing fun about Vulcans. They’re logical and boring and, if Jim’s being completely honest, just the tiniest bit scary. And this is the boy who will be in his house, sharing his room, sleeping in his brother’s bed. How is he even supposed to start trying to make friends with someone so . . . well, alien?_

Author's Note: Honestly, I'm not quite sure what needs to be said here. The moment all (or most) of you have been waiting for. ^_~

 

 

 

 

 

Spock stands in one of the private alcoves on the observation deck, hands clasped behind his back as he watches the stars streak by.  After seven days, fourteen hours and twenty-three minutes aboard this ship, he is very nearly at his journey’s end.  It is the first time he has made the trip to Earth entirely on his own, and he finds the freedom secretly thrilling.  All that holds him to his destination is his own will; if he chose to, he could go anywhere.  Do anything.  

He won’t, of course, and does not wish to.  If he thought the request of a seventeen-year-old would hold any weight, Spock would have long ago asked the captain to increase their speed.  The _Nomad_ has been holding steady at Warp 4 for the duration of their voyage; surely that is not the top speed that a ship of this type may achieve.  He reminds himself that he has been away from Earth for nearly two years, making the difference of a few hours inconsequential.  Impatience is illogical.  _Kaiidth_ ; he will arrive when he arrives.

When he was on Vulcan, that thought would have been enough to quiet his nerves, yet the closer he comes to Earth, the less sway his logical arguments seem to hold over him.  He already feels less in control of his own emotions than he had been during the entirety of the one year, ten months and five days in which he remained exclusively on Vulcan.

That, too, is a terrifyingly thrilling kind of freedom.

With his thoughts—which have been scattered at best since he finished his entrance exam for the Vulcan Science Academy—once again firmly settled on James, Spock finally abandons all pretense.  Soon he will be on Earth, and he will have nearly five full days to spend alone with his friend.

No, he reminds himself, not merely his friend.  His _boyfriend_.

It is still a difficult mental adjustment for Spock to make.  Their time together two summers ago had been all too brief, and their mutual agreement to keep the change in their relationship secret from their mothers had limited them to several admittedly intense kissing sessions.  And, Spock amends, one memorable if frustrating afternoon spent alternately sprawled over each other on James’s bed and leaping apart at the slightest noise for fear of being discovered.  

Despite the fact that his previous interest had been limited to little more than anthropological curiosity, Spock had found himself utterly and helplessly fascinated by Human—or, in his case, half-Human—sexuality.  He had known, logically, that there was no actual danger, that Humans do not experience _pon farr_ or anything like it.  And yet whenever James had whispered in a low, needy voice that he would die if he did not kiss Spock soon, Spock had nearly believed it—in great part because he had felt the same way himself.  His desire for James, already maddening when when he had no right to touch him, became nearly unbearable once he was assured that James was _his_.

Which had only made it infinitely more frustrating, he reflects irritably, when James had shied away from progressing any further than what he referred to as _making out_.  No matter how Spock had asked, had pushed, had _needed_ , James had stood firm.

_“Don’t say that,”_ he can still hear James groan when Spock had hesitantly questioned whether his desire simply did not equal Spock’s.  _“I want you so much sometimes I can’t think.  But I don’t want to just rush through what we’re doing.  When I touch you, I want to be able to take my time.  I want to do this right.”_

Spock had had no argument for that, but that knowledge had not made his frustration any easier to bear.  He had wanted— _still_ wants—James with an intensity that is almost frightening.  It had taken all of his self-control to insist that James refrain from pulling Spock into his dreams; the single time it had happened, Spock had remained shaken and dazed for nearly a full week afterwards, something that he could ill afford with his studies demanding so much of his attention.  And though he sometimes suspected, based on the evidence of his sheets in the morning, that James had not entirely stopped visiting Spock’s mind, he had not attempted to push past Spock’s shields and Spock had remained gratefully unaware of anything that may have transpired in their shared mental space.  His desires had been easier to fight then, when all he had to endure was a series of increasingly provocative letters and the rare subspace communication.  Now, however . . .

Now he almost regrets the two months they spent as boyfriends, the months that have made Spock quite keenly aware of what he is missing.  Yet it is impossible for him to truly wish that things had been different when they have left him with the—admittedly frustrating—memory of James in his arms, the soft, sweet press of lips against his own, the thrill of heat rising within his body—

Spock takes a deep, measured breath and cuts off that train of thought, setting his teeth as he wills down his entirely predictable physiological response.  Doing so has grown progressively more difficult since he began his journey, but he is not yet so far gone as to lose his hard-won authority over his own physical reactions.  _The mind controls the body_ , he reminds himself, focusing his attention once more on the stars beyond the window.  _I am Vulcan.  The mind controls the body._

It takes time, but Spock finally manages to calm himself again.  How long it will last once he is able to actually see James again, he is less than certain.  With that in mind he he leaves the observation deck and returns to his quarters; his things are already packed and waiting, leaving him free to spend the remainder of the voyage in meditation.  He must reinforce his shields, reassert his composure.  It will not do to allow himself to become distracted during his exam, and he knows that James’s proximity will present a constant temptation.  With several deep, careful breaths, he allows himself to fall into a light trance with no thoughts beyond the beat of his heart and the air in his lungs.

As Spock retreats to the ordered plains of his mental landscape, he allows himself to dwell yet again on the discovery that has been haunting his thoughts for almost a year now.  It had started with a simple treatise on Ancient Vulcan literature, a requirement for the culmination of his studies before preparation for his entrance exam could begin.  A large portion of his time had been devoted to research, as many of the more flagrantly emotional words and phrases had no modern equivalent, making translation problematic at best.  While the sense of most of the archaic language had posed only a moderate challenge, one word in particular had stymied him for a full week before he had sought his instructor’s assistance.  She had been of little help, however, and as his overall research remained unaffected by the lack, encouraged him to simply move on.

Spock had indeed completed his treatise, but he had not been able to ignore the way that single word had seemed to gnaw at his awareness.  There had been little information available beyond the context of the poems in which he had found it, yet there were so many nuances of meaning that it was nearly impossible to limit it to a single definition.  Rather, it had seemed to be a term that encompassed several ranges of being at once, and Spock had filled an entire data chip with potential interpretations.  

_Friend_ seemed to be a crucial element of its meaning, yet not nearly enough to explain the depth and scope of the emotions represented.  _Brother_ , as well, though not in a way that required relation by blood—a brother-in-arms seemed, in most cases, the most likely translation.  Yet there was an undeniably romantic aspect to the poems as well, the sense that the word was very nearly an endearment, one often used in reference to sexual intercourse.  And beyond all of the other, more common attributes, there lay a sense of something deeper and still more difficult to define: a reflection of one’s most inner self in another, a _katra_ so familiar it was like a portion of the speaker’s own self.

As he had immersed himself in poem after poem, and his research had expanded to find the word scattered in other Pre-Reformation texts, a theory had begun to germinate at the back of Spock’s mind.  He had pushed it aside, more immediately concerned with the rigorous demands of his study schedule, but in moments of deepest meditation he had allowed himself to poke and prod and examine the idea.  As he pulls it forward in his thoughts now, he realizes that with a portion of his mind continually devoted to this puzzle, he has finally moved beyond a shadow of a doubt.  He is certain, as he has been of little else before, that this is the word that defines his relationship with James, that encompasses all that they are, and all that they will be together.

They are not lovers yet; but perhaps, if James is willing, that will soon change.  And when he knows the feel of James beneath his hands, knows his taste and the feel of his skin bare to Spock’s touch, then Spock will call him _t’hy’la_ , and know it to be true.

Though excitement is still buzzing beneath his skin, Spock is feeling adequately centered by the time the ship reaches orbit around Earth and porters arrive to assist him with his luggage.  His family’s money and his father’s status have secured him one of the first beam-down slots.  None of the other passengers are traveling to his final destination, and when he reaches the transporter room there is no one but the technician waiting for him.

“Please confirm the data on the screen,” the man says, his tone polite but disinterested, and Spock steps forward to do so as his luggage is placed neatly on the pad.

_San Francisco, California, United States of America_ , Spock reads, distantly pleased that his control has sufficiently strengthened so that he experiences no more than a brief thrill at the words.  _0700 local time, Starfleet Academy terminal._

“That is correct,” he says, and steps onto the pad beside his luggage with the surety of a seasoned traveler.

“If you have any questions or complaints, the ship will remain in dock until Thursday night, twenty-hundred hours local time.”  The man’s hands are already moving over the controls as he speaks, his voice the pleasant monotone of one who has repeated the same words so many times that they require no conscious thought.  “After that, all requests for information must be directed to our planetside office.”  He glances up, visibly taking in Spock’s ears and eyebrows, and offers a restrained nod.  “May you have a fruitful visit, sir.”

Preening just a bit at the respectful, adult address, Spock nods solemnly in return.  Apparently expecting nothing more, the technician hits a final sequence of buttons and Spock almost immediately feels the odd tingle that precedes his atoms beginning to break apart.  The world around him fades, and when it reappears the quiet opulence of the transport ship has been replaced with the bright, stark efficiency of a Starfleet receiving bay.  The control panel is occupied by a young Andorian male who looks only slightly older than Spock, dressed in cadet reds, with a Human woman in instructor blacks standing just behind him.

“Welcome to San Francisco, Mr. Spock,” the Andorian says.  “Do you require assistance with your luggage?”

“No.”  Spock wishes to present a positive, self-sufficient impression with an Academy professor looking on.  He has only two bags, after all, and can easily handle them himself; he picks them up now.

“You will need to proceed to the security checkpoint to have your arrival logged and verified.  The station is down the corridor to your left.  Please have your documentation ready to facilitate a swift and smooth process.”

Spock nods once and, thus dismissed, makes his way out of the transporter room and through the brightly-lit corridor to the security checkpoint.  It is a process he has been through many times before, though whether it is due to his proximity to Starfleet headquarters or his lack of a clearly Human escort, he is more thoroughly screened and interviewed this time.  He provides all of the required information with patient endurance that the Tellarite in the bay to his left is sorely lacking, and is released on his way in less than fourteen minutes.  His luggage, examined while his interview was conducted, awaits him now as he makes his way out to the terminal lobby.

He senses James before he sees him, like a bright spike of warmth in his mind, and despite his newly reinforced controls Spock finds it difficult to retain his composure.  He has reason to be grateful for his restraint a moment later, when he turns to seek the source of the wealth of emotions currently flooding through their link and sees a beaming James heading towards him with a similarly smiling Winona Kirk in tow.  Her presence, while not a surprise, is a timely reminder of the necessity of maintaining an appropriately Vulcan demeanor despite his very Human instincts upon finally seeing James after a nearly two-year absence.

“Spock!”  

Despite their numerous discussions on the need for discretion, especially around their parents, James’s excitement has clearly gotten the better of his caution.  The moment he is close enough, he throws his arms around Spock’s neck, crashing into him in a flurry of joyful excitement.  The brush of his arm against the bare skin beneath Spock’s jaw carries with it a tidal wave of jumbled thoughts, from which Spock can only discern _herefinallymissedyoumissedyouneverwanttoletgo_.  He is, thankfully, too stunned by James’s shocking lack of discretion—and, admittedly, the intoxicating feeling of his body plastered against Spock’s—to respond immediately.  He is still standing stiffly, arms at his sides, when James releases him only moments later and steps back with an embarrassed flush rising over his face.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, looking around as though only then recalling that they are in the middle of a public terminal.  “Um.  I just . . .”  Even embarrassment can not keep the brilliant smile from his face for long.  “I’m just really glad to see you.”

“In that case,” Spock says warmly, “I do not believe that I can fault your . . . enthusiasm.”

“Jimmy’s been nearly impossible for weeks now,” Winona says, gently teasing her son.  “He probably would’ve gone to meet you halfway if I let him.”

“Hey, we should probably get to the hotel, shouldn’t we?” James says slightly louder than strictly necessary, his face growing redder yet again.  “Here, lemme help you.”  And with that he grabs the bag closest to him and, hauling the strap over his shoulder, sets off without waiting to see if they follow.

“I’m so glad you could come back, Spock.”  James’s mother seems on the verge of following her son’s example and hauling him into an embrace, but she manages to exercise appropriate restraint and they merely begin walking towards the terminal’s exit.  “Jim’s been missing his best friend.”

Spock glances at the woman who has often felt as much a mother to him as his own.  To her, and to her alone, he is willing to admit, “As have I.”

He is rewarded by a smile so like her son’s that Spock’s heart gives a hard, distracting thump against his side.

“You’ve gotten taller, haven’t you?” Winona is asking, and Spock inclines his head.

“I have grown an additional five point seven centimeters since I saw you last.”

“You’re going to be tall like your father,” she says.  

The touch of pride in her voice is both baffling and oddly pleasing, and Spock is uncertain how to respond.  He is still searching for something appropriate when they step outside and find James waiting impatiently next to an idling taxi.  The temperature is cooler than what he remembers from his previous Iowa summers, and almost frigid after so much time spent exclusively on Vulcan.  He allows James to assist him in bundling his luggage into the hatch at the back of the vehicle, and to thereafter bundle Spock into the backseat with equal efficiency.  Despite his cooler body temperature, James feels warm pressed up against him, leaving Spock to simply sit back and observe as he exclaims over the sights passing outside the vehicle’s window.

“I can’t believe we’re actually _here_ ,” James is saying excitedly.  “Spock, while we’re here we’re totally gonna have to—”

What they have to do is lost on Spock, however, as he feels cool fingers brush lightly against his own and he is forced to stifle a shiver.  He is willing to believe that it was an accident caused by James’s enthusiastic gesturing and general carelessness, and he sends a gentle sense of reprimand through their link.  A moment later, however, it happens again, and as Spock looks over sharply he can see that his boyfriend’s smile has a distinctly mischievous slant to it.

The rest of the ride is trying, to say the least.

James is still talking when they pull up outside of the hotel—“Can’t believe we get to stay at _The Federation_ , this is the coolest hotel in the city, I read about it last month”—though the teasing kisses thankfully come to a stop as they climb out of the ‘car.  By the time they retrieve Spock’s luggage and go inside, however, he has faded to near silence.

“I’ve already got us checked in.  I know the reservation’s under your name, but since we got here first I thought . . .”  He shifts the strap on his shoulder, redistributing the weight of Spock’s bag.  “Um.  I can help you take your stuff up, if you want.”

“That sounds like an excellent idea, Jim.”  Winona, Spock notes, appears well pleased by her son’s manners, and despite the edge of frustration that he is currently riding, he can not help a brief flash of amusement.  “You can change your clothes while you’re up there, too.  I’ll get us a table,” she adds, nodding towards the restaurant that opens onto the lobby.  “I have a little over an hour before I have to be at the base; Spock, you’ll have breakfast with us, won’t you?”

“Of course,” he says with a gracious nod, though his air of solemn maturity is somewhat undercut as his eyebrows fly up when he notices that James is already headed for the ‘lifts.  Exchanging a wry look with Winona, Spock hurries after him.

Their room is on the tenth floor, and though the ‘lift is quick the ride seems long with such unusual silence between them.  Desire and nerves are warring at the back of his head, but whether its origin is in James’s head or his own, he does not know.  Without that knowledge he is unwilling to take the step his body yearns for, the one that would trap James between Spock’s body and the wall of the ‘lift, holding him there so that Spock can—

He is pulled from his thoughts by the chime of the ‘lift announcing their arrival at their floor.  James exits into the corridor first, leaving Spock to follow; it is not, Spock reflects as he watches the other boy walk, a disagreeable arrangement.  And if he follows a little more slowly than absolutely necessary, he is certain that his actions are understandable.  By the time he reaches their door James already has it open, dropping the luggage as Spock steps inside.

Spock takes in the two wide beds, the wall hangings and tastefully displayed Vulcan art, and wonders if the room is always decorated like this or if special accommodations were made for Ambassador Sarek’s son.  Given the hotel, he estimates the odds to be approximately even in either case.  _The Federation_ is renowned for its dedication to pan-species comfort as well as being favored by the Federation’s elite; for someone of the Ambassador’s standing, Spock can well believe that certain arrangements may have been made.

His introspection does not last long, however, before he finds himself drawn to the glass doors that lead to a small balcony and offer a view of the bay, as well as the very edge of the Academy campus.  Spock steps closer, unable to ignore the illogical thrill that runs through him at the sight.  This, he thinks, is where he will live for the next several years, where James will join him, where they will learn to travel the stars together.  It seems momentous, that sweeping view, but when he turns to beckon James to join him he finds him already standing close, moving closer still, and the view behind Spock is abruptly forgotten in favor of the one before him.

When their lips meet Spock swears that he can feel it down to the marrow of his bones, like an electric current that sizzles through his blood.  Even as he tells himself that they should stop, he’s pulling James closer, wrapping his arms around his waist and opening his mouth to an eager tongue.  James is pressed against him now, his hands sliding from Spock’s shoulders and up into his hair, wavering between holding Spock where he wants him and simply holding on.  There is no doubt now that James wants this just as fiercely as Spock does, and the knowledge is both a blessing and a curse.  The certainty of being wanted in return is heady, almost intoxicating; delightful in its own right, but dangerous when they are being awaited downstairs by James’s mother.

Either in response to Spock’s thoughts or to his own belated sense of responsibility, James pulls away with a groan.  Spock succeeds in stopping himself from reaching for him again, but only just.

“Mom’s waiting for us.”  James’s voice is slightly uneven, his lips reddened from their kiss; Spock clenches his hands behind his back in order to keep them to himself.  “But . . .”  Bright blue eyes search Spock’s hopefully, hesitantly.  “Tonight?”

“Yes, James.”  Spock can hear the roughness in his own voice, and feels a surge of mingled surprise and gratification at the answering heat that flares in the younger boy’s eyes.

“Okay.”  James runs a hand over his mouth, dragging his gaze away from Spock by what looks to be a profound force of will.  “Okay,” he says again.  “I’m gonna . . .”  He gestures towards the open door to the bathroom and picks up his own bag.  “Gonna change.  In there.”

By the time they have both changed their clothes, Spock has regained a measure of control over himself, enough to weather the sight of James in a crisp white button-down shirt that highlights the blue of his eyes and the golden warmth of his skin.  James, for his part, seems to have decided that it is best if he avoids looking at Spock altogether.

Breakfast, when they reach the restaurant, is delicious.  Spock orders a plate with a selection of fruit, bread and cheese from a half-dozen different Federation planets, and turns up his nose at James’s coffee just as much as the younger boy wrinkles his at Spock’s tea.

“Andy—Lieutenant Foxwell—is expecting you at 1200 hours in Hangar X13,” Winona says, watching warmly as her son nods eagerly.  He’ll give you a tour of some of the Engineering department; not the stuff that’s on the usual prospectives’ tour, so be sure to be on your best behavior and don’t touch _anything_ without permission.”

“I _know_ , Mom, jeez.”  

James’s grumbling can not hide his excitement, however, and while he quizzes his mother over how high his clearance level extends, Spock watches with a sense of bemused fondness.  His own mind is on his exam, which is scheduled to begin in a matter of hours.  He is caught off-guard, then, though by no means unprepared, when Winona turns to him with an encouraging smile.

“What about you, Spock?  I told Andy he might have two of you to show around, but Jim keeps telling me you might have plans of your own.”

“Indeed,” Spock says after only a moment’s pause.  “I have some few final details to investigate as regards my acceptance at the Vulcan Science Institute, and believe that the Academy will be most useful in that regard.”

It is not, strictly speaking, a lie.  Though they have never explicitly stated a preference for his continued education, Spock has elected not to inform his parents of his intention to apply to Starfleet Academy, much less of the plans that he and James have built for themselves.  When— _if_ , he reminds himself—he is accepted, he will inform them; in the meantime, he has taken to heart James’s advice that ‘it is better to beg forgiveness than to ask permission’.  Uncertain of Terran parental etiquette in this situation, he has allowed James’s long-held desire to visit the Academy campus to act as a veil for Spock’s true intentions.

Watching Winona’s face now, however, Spock can not help but wonder if their subterfuge has been in vain.  There is a hint of knowledge in her eyes, and a small smile playing around her mouth.  She says nothing, however, and in the lack of confirmed proof Spock chooses to believe that it is only his paranoid imagination at work.  He puts it from his mind as they finish their meal, and attempts to return his focus to the task ahead.

 

******************************

 

“How was it?  Was it hard?  Man, you know I’m going to have to sit the _whole thing_ ; you’re so lucky your VSA preliminary counts as your qualifying test.”

Spock very nearly smiles at James’s exuberance.  “You would not believe so if you had taken the VSA preliminary exam,” he says, and James rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, I know, big super-scary Vulcan test.  You’re smart enough to pass anything they throw at you, though, and then some.  Come _on_ , you can’t keep me waiting anymore.”

Spock tucks his hands into his sleeves as they walk, protecting them from the cooling air of dusk.  “I believe I performed adequately.”

James stares at him in disbelief.  “You keep me waiting all day, and all through dinner, and that’s all you give me?”

“I am certain you’re aware of the non-disclosure agreement that all prospective cadets must sign,” Spock says with a raised eyebrow.  “I am not permitted to discuss the content of the exam.”

“Yeah, I know, I just . . .”  James sighs, staring out over the grounds towards the bay and the great red bridge that spans it.  “I have another whole year to wait.  The labs I got to see, Spock, they’re _amazing_ , practically enough to make me want to change to an Engineering focus.  And at lunch a bunch of officers were telling me about the missions they’d been on, all the things they’d seen . . . I mean, I know they were only doing that because I’m George Kirk’s son so they think I’m some kind of big deal or something, but . . .”  He shakes his head and glances wryly over at Spock.  “I guess I’m just impatient.”

“You will be here soon, James,” Spock says softly, moving just the slightest bit closer to his friend.

“I want . . .”  The younger boy takes a deep breath.  “I want to be like my dad,” he says with conviction.  “Not just look like him, but _be_ like him.  The kind of officer and captain he was.”

“I did not know him.  However, from the stories that our mothers have told I believe that, though you may not yet be a Starfleet officer, you are already a great deal like your father.”

The smile that James favors him with is brilliant and warm, and Spock soaks it in before it turns almost shy.

“To tell you the truth, Spock, I’m also trying to think about all this so that I can distract myself from doing something I probably shouldn’t.”

“Oh?”  As though the way James’s eyes keep glancing down to his lips has escaped his notice, Spock takes a calming breath and asks, “Such as?”

James kisses him so quickly that Spock is uncertain whether he could have stopped him if he tried.  Stopping is far from his mind, however, and despite the fact that they are in public he reaches blindly for James’s hand, shivering at the younger boy’s moan when their fingers meet.  They part after only a moment, though Spock finds himself attempting to cling to the brief kisses that pepper his lips as James steps back.

“We should maybe . . .”  James glances down at their still-joined hands, but makes no move to let go.  “Um.  Maybe talk a little bit.”

“We have been talking, James.”  Spock is surprised at his own insistence; it is eminently worth it, however, to see James’s eyes flutter shut at his pleading.  “I admit,” Spock continues, “that I am somewhat lacking in experience.  As you know, however, I learn very quickly; and I have done some reading for research purposes, as well.”

James’s eyes fly open as a flood of lust sweeps through their link.  “Oh, fuck,” he breathes, squeezing Spock’s fingers tighter.  “What kind of reading?”

Spock can feel his face beginning to heat, and takes comfort in the fact that the growing darkness will likely hide his flush.  “Anatomy texts,” he says.  Embarrassment due to simple factual statements is illogical, he reminds himself.  “And three treatises on Human sexuality.”

Through their joined hands Spock receives a jumbled mix of thoughts, chief among them _So damn cute, so hot, can’t believe he’s mine, can’t believe I get to—_

“Anatomy texts, huh?” James teases gently.  “Did the charts and diagrams get you hot?”

Spock raises an eyebrow.  “Not especially,” he says dryly.  “However, thoughts of you have been most effective in that regard.”

“Oh.”  James’s lips are parted slightly in surprise.  “That’s, um . . . good.  That’s good.”

“Now, perhaps.  When we were apart, I must confess that attempting to subvert my physical reactions was trying at best.”

“Subvert—you mean, you didn’t just . . .”  He makes a vague gesture.  “You know.  Get yourself off?”

“You are inquiring whether or not I brought myself to orgasm?”

“Oh, god,” James moans.  “Yes, that’s what I’m asking, _fuck_.”

“The mind controls the body,” Spock says automatically, letting his fingers wander over the back of James’s hand.  “I meditated the condition away.”

“Spock.”  James’s eyes are wide.  “Are you telling me you’ve never come before?  Never . . .”  He seems to be struggling to say the words.  “Y’know . . . had an orgasm?”

“I believe I may have had several, actually, when you took it upon yourself to visit my mind while I slept,” Spock says dryly, and James squirms.

“Yeah.  I, uh, I never really meant to, exactly.  It just kind of happened.  Sorry?”

Spock squeezes James’s fingers to say that he bears no ill will.  “In any case, once I learned to block my awareness of you while I slept, I was no longer aware of anything that may have happened between our minds.  While the evidence of a nocturnal release was occasionally present in the mornings, I have no memories of the experience.”

“So as far as you remember, you’ve never . . .”  James’s mouth is on Spock’s again before he finishes speaking, making Spock’s head reel with the taste of him.  “Hotel,” James pants against his lips after a moment.  “Let’s go back.  Now.”

They reach their hotel in what is surely record time, and the instant the door to their room closes behind them James is kissing him again, pressing their lips together and joining their fingers in a messy tangle.  His emotions are crashing over Spock in waves, threatening to drown him in a flood of _wantneedexcitednervousmoremoremoremoremore_.  It should be unpleasant.  Spock should want to pull away, to shield himself from this excessive loss of control.  Instead he wraps his free arm around the other boy’s waist, clinging to him like a rock in the storm.  James’s desire is feeding his own, encouraging his fist to clench around the fabric at the small of his back even as his other hand busies itself mapping James’s from wrist to fingertips.

“Spock.”  

The way James breathes his name against his lips sends a swift surge of possession through him.  The younger boy pulls away and Spock very nearly yanks him immediately back again.  The sight of James’s face stops him; flushed with arousal, it is easily the most compelling, most beautiful thing that Spock has ever seen.  Warm pink spots ride high on his cheeks, highlighting eyes so brightly blue they steal away all rational thought.  His lips are red and swollen, and when his tongue darts out to wet them Spock feels his legs go oddly weak.

“Spock,” James says again.  Logical or not, Spock thinks that he could happily live for the rest of his life watching his name spoken from those lips.  “I want . . .”

He flushes, and his eyes drop.  It is rare to see James shy, and Spock can’t help but think that this is an inconvenient time for that particular trait to manifest itself, no matter how visually appealing it may be.  After several moments it is clear that he will not be saying anything more.  But his hands and thoughts are eloquent in their desires, and Spock is helpless to do anything but respond.

His lips find James’s almost of their own volition.  They fall into the kiss as though it’s something they’ve done a hundred times before, familiar for all its newness.  Spock gathers James closer until their bodies fit together seamlessly, painfully aroused to discover an answering hardness pressed against his own.  A whimper rips its way out of James’s throat; Spock’s hips jerk against him and the whimper becomes a moan.

“James.”  His own voice is rough, barely recognizable.  His blood is running hot in his veins, and breathing has become difficult.  Some small corner of his mind wonders if this is what _pon farr_ will be, this trembling, insatiable need that is swamping him.  But no, he can not imagine ever wanting T’Pring the way that he wants his James, can not imagine even the fires of the _plak tow_ making him burn for her the way he burns for the Human in his arms, golden and beautiful and _his_.  He buries his face in the side of James’s neck and inhales his scent, lets his lips brush over the strong line of muscle there.  “I am . . . unsure how to proceed,” he admits in a whisper against his skin.

James’s fingers stroke over his hair and his lips brush lightly against the edge of his ear.  “It’s okay,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that makes Spock’s blood run hotter.  “I’ve got you.  Just . . . just let me . . .”  

At first Spock does not understand, but then Jim’s hand is tugging the sash free from around his waist and seeking out the fastenings of his tunic.  And yes, it is only logical to remove the clothing that bars them from each other.  He releases James’s hand reluctantly, a sacrifice necessary to open the buttons on his shirt.  

The skin that is revealed is smooth and cool against his fingers.  Spock splays his hand over the center of James’s ribcage, fascinated by the difference between the cool green that tinges his own skin and the warm pink spreading beneath his touch.  He can feel the slow thrum of a Human heart, so oddly placed, and James makes a sound somewhere between a groan and a whimper.

“Touch me,” he whispers.  His hand is fisted in the folds of Spock’s tunic that he has yet to vanquish.  “Please, please touch me.”

Spock complies, stroking his hands down strong sides, skimming over planes of muscle and sudden outcroppings of bone.  He loses himself in the feel and taste of Human skin as their clothing falls away; for once he could not possibly care less if it lands in a crumpled heap on the floor.  What he does care about is James’s hands on him at last, somehow greedy in their exploration of every inch of Spock’s body that they can reach.  He leans in and kisses the younger boy again, marveling at a mouth that is somehow hot and cool at once as it opens to him.

James breaks the kiss to trail his mouth over Spock’s jaw and down the side of his neck.  Spock is completely unable to control the shivers that cascade down his spine when James’s tongue finds a particularly sensitive spot, and for the first time in his memory he is uninterested in attempting to control his body’s natural responses.  His fingers dig into James’s back just above his hips, bringing them crashing together.  And oh, oh, it is so very different than it was when they had still been clothed.  Now skin slides against skin and Spock feels as though he will simply fly apart at any moment.  The other boy buries his face in the crook of Spock’s neck, his moan breathed out against Spock’s skin.

A cool hand is snaking between them, brushing against his stomach and then sliding down, down until James is holding the root of him in his palm and Spock quite simply can not think any longer.  His awareness comes in fits and spurts now, snatches of consciousness nearly lost amidst a haze of pleasure.  He feels his own hand wrap around James in turn, echoing his movements, and he feels the groan rumble through his chest as much as he hears it.  James is pushing and tugging and twisting until they tumble onto the bed, tangled together.  They have somehow righted themselves and are lying on their sides facing each other, hands still working over needy flesh as their mouths meet again.

James moves closer, wriggling his hips until they are mere inches away from Spock’s.  His hand shifts, his grip widening, and Spock feels a desperate sound catch at the back of his throat when James’s fingers tangle with his again.  Their hands link and then they are stroking and rubbing together as a buzzing begins in Spock’s head.  He can no longer focus on the kiss; his desire is caught with James’s in a feedback loop, draining his mental acuity.  Their lips simply cling to each other’s for a moment, breath shared in the space between them.  Then James is pressing their foreheads together, quickening the pace of their hands and their hips until Spock sees stars, galaxies, supernovas behind his eyes.

Climax.  Orgasm.  The words, the technical definitions have not prepared him for the reality, for the bone-melting pleasure that shoots through his entire body.  They have not prepared him for the trembling that overtakes both of them, for the way James arches and tightens an instant before his release coats Spock’s skin.  Most of all, they have not prepared him for the rush of warmth and affection and something more, something that almost aches, flowing from James’s mind into his and back again.

His entire body feels alight, and he is seized by the absurd thought that if he were to open his eyes he would see that his skin was actually glowing.  There is no time to test this theory, however, before James’s lips meet his again.  This kiss is soft and slow, a stark contrast to the desperation that they shared only moments ago.  Spock can not stop his hands from tracing the lines of James’s body, soaking up the pleasure and contentment that echoes through the skin-to-skin contact.

“ _Taluhk nash-veh, k’diwa_ ,” Spock murmurs, and as James’s lips brush his Spock can feel his smile.

“Still don’t speak Vulcan,” James murmurs.  “But I hope that means you enjoyed that.”

Spock opens his eyes to gaze into sated, sparkling blue ones.  “It means that you are extraordinary.”  He leans in for another kiss.  “And that you are mine.”

James’s smile grows even wider; Spock can not hold back a huff of protest at how much more difficult it makes it to kiss him.

“Thank you for letting me see that,” James says quietly, and Spock pulls away again to see an unusually serious look on his _t’hy’la_ ’s face.  “You were gorgeous.”  He smiles softly.  “Extraordinary.”

“I . . .”  Spock experiences a brief pang on disappointment.  “I was not watching you,” he admits, and James laughs, burrowing closer.

“You were sort of focused on other things,” he teases.  “But I guess that means we’ll just have to try again so you can pay better attention next time.”

Spock traces his fingers up and down the line of James’s spine and blissfully indulges in the happiness that has settled warm and light within him.

“That is acceptable,” he says, and lets his lips curve for James to taste his smile.

 


	17. Daffodil Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Because the kid who’s coming is _Vulcan_ , for heaven’s sake. There’s nothing fun about Vulcans. They’re logical and boring and, if Jim’s being completely honest, just the tiniest bit scary. And this is the boy who will be in his house, sharing his room, sleeping in his brother’s bed. How is he even supposed to start trying to make friends with someone so . . . well, alien?_

**Author's Note:** I, um.  Well, okay.  YOU CAN NOT SAY THAT I DIDN'T WARN YOU.  But remember, I do have a plan!  You'll have to trust me on that.  To all who have read along so far, thank you so much.  And to those willing to follow me into what comes next, thank you as well!  I hope to see you soon.  Remember, there will be a time jump of several years in between this and the next story.  Remember also that the name of this story will be officially changing soon. ^_^  All right, I'll get on with posting this from my undisclosed location, so . . . uh, enjoy? *hides*  ETA: Oh yeah!  There is an itty bitty homage to one of my favorite K/S authors in here; super-extra-sparkly bonus points to anyone who spots it!

 

 

 

Jim wakes slowly, warm and comfortable and reluctant to open his eyes.  The bed feels different; bigger somehow, with smoother sheets, and it takes him a moment to remember why.  Not his bed at home, but the one in San Francisco.  Which explains, he supposes, why he can feel a body radiating heat next to him.

He rolls over to see Spock lying on his back, his face relaxed and his normally immaculate hair messy and rumpled, and a fierce sense of pride blooms in Jim’s chest.  It’s almost impossible to believe that they’re here, and Jim has never in his life been so glad to have lied to his mother.  It’s meant months of pretending an interest in the boys and girls back home—with some rather creative subterfuge with Katy and Johnny’s help—but this moment makes it absolutely worth it.  Even disregarding the fact that Spock had been absolutely right about their parents disapproving of their relationship, there’s no way on Earth or any other planet that they’d have been allowed to go to a strange city by themselves, let alone share a _bedroom_ , if they’d been open about their relationship.

The urge to touch—the knowledge that he _can_ —is nearly overwhelming.  A persistent twinge in his bladder demands his attention, however, and Jim slips as carefully as possible from the bed.  Feeling a tiny bit unnerved by walking around a hotel room completely naked, he pauses to scoop his underwear off of the floor before heading quietly into the bathroom.

While he’s there he figures he might as well brush his teeth, too; the last thing he wants is to wake Spock up with his awful morning-breath.  Though he tries to be as quiet as possible, when Jim pads back into the bedroom he’s surprised to find Spock still lying in bed, breathing deeply and apparently undisturbed by Jim’s absence.  That’s odd, he thinks; Spock _always_ wakes up before Jim does.  There’s something suspicious about the curve of his body, too, the way it’s positioned so that it will be easy for Jim to slip back under the covers and curl up against him.  Jim grins as he burrows in again, feeling a familiar flicker at the back of his mind that makes him smother a blissful laugh against Spock’s shoulder.

“You big faker.  I know you’re awake.”

Spock’s arms wind around his waist, holding him close.  “You have no proof,” he murmurs into Jim’s hair, and Jim doesn’t bother to smother his laugh this time.

He lifts his head to find Spock gazing back at him, his deep brown eyes still soft with sleep, and Jim’s heart aches pleasantly.

“Hey,” he says, unable to keep an idiotic, smitten grin from stretching over his face.  Unable to wait another moment, he leans forward to press his lips to Spock’s.  The sharp, sweet taste of mint surprises him, and he pulls back again to fix Spock with a suspicious look.  “How long have you been awake?”

“Thirty-seven minutes and approximately thirty seconds,” Spock admits.

“And you snuck out of bed to brush your teeth before I woke up?” Jim teases, smoothing his fingertips over Spock’s raised eyebrow.

“As did you.”

“Fair point.”  

Jim kisses him again    , because he wants to and because he _can_ ; he still can’t believe it.  This time, however, Spock does not wait for him to lead, but wraps a hand around the back of Jim’s neck and guides him to exactly where Spock wants him.  It’s Spock’s tongue that swipes entreatingly over the seam of Jim’s lips, taking advantage of Jim’s surprised moan to dart into his mouth.  Jim is more than willing to submit to his desires, unable to do anything but feel his head spin and his heart race at Spock’s confident, insistent touch.

“You’re getting really good at that,” he manages to say when they finally break apart to breathe, and feels Spock’s delight at his praise.

“I believe,” Spock says with a teasing warmth in his eyes, “that I still require additional practice.”

Jim laughs.  “Well, I guess that can be arranged.”

“Is there anything in particular you wish to do today?” Spock asks, his hand skimming lazily up and down Jim’s spine from the nape of his neck to the waistband of his underwear, and Jim raises his eyebrows in disbelief.  “The second half of my entrance exam is scheduled for 1400 hours,” Spock reminds him with the slightest twitch of his lips.  “I am afraid that we will be unable to spend _all_ day in bed.”

“Well.  Not today, anyway.”  Jim’s leer is slightly derailed by the fierce rush of _want_ that streams into his head.  “ _Spock_.”  He leans forward, skimming his lips over the soft skin beneath Spock’s jaw, delighting in the faint scratch of stubble there.  “There are so many things I want to do with you.  I don’t want to rush anything, but . . . I can’t help . . .”

He feels more than hears Spock’s breath catch as two years’ worth of fantasies start running through Jim’s mind.  For a moment, Jim tries to rein in his thoughts; almost immediately, however, he feels Spock through their link, pressing against the weak barriers Jim is trying to raise.  And well, if Spock really wants to see . . .

“You have . . . an incredibly vivid imagination, James,” Spock says hoarsely, and Jim can feel himself blushing.

“I’ve had a long time to think about it.”  He focuses on the sight of his fingers tangling in the dusting of hair that covers Spock’s chest.  “I don’t expect us to do everything right away,” he says in a rush.  “Or at all, you know, if you don’t want to.  I mean, just because I’ve _thought_ about it doesn’t mean—”

Spock’s mouth on his keeps him from finishing that sentence, which is good because he’s pretty sure he was rambling.  And when Spock pushes against him, maneuvering his weight until he’s rolled Jim beneath him, oh, yes, that’s good too.  That inhumanly warm body holding him down, all lean muscle and soft, dry skin.  Desire, hot and insistent, pours into his head, nearly overwhelming him.  Jim kisses back fiercely, pulling Spock even more firmly down onto him.  They’re both getting hard already as Spock’s hands slide greedily over Jim’s ribs, as his mouth trails down to kiss and suck and bite at Jim’s neck.  Jim feels surrounded, overwhelmed in the best possible way, and he threads his fingers through Spock’s silky hair as he feels something in his heart simply give way.

“I love you.”

He breathes the words into a pointed ear, and feels Spock go still above him.  For just a moment, Jim is certain his heart has simply stopped altogether.  Then he’s looking up into wide brown eyes staring down at him, bright with unhidden emotion.

“I love you,” Jim says again, unable or unwilling to hold it in; he’s not sure which.  It hardly matters in the face of the warmth that runs through him as the words pass his lips, the way they make him feel so light he almost thinks that if Spock weren’t holding him down he’d simply float up to the ceiling.

“James.”  

Spock’s voice sounds wrecked, and Jim has time to see that his eyes have gone even darker than usual before he has Spock’s fingers tangled in his hair and Spock’s tongue sweeping through his mouth.  Spock is kissing him like it’s the most important thing he’s ever done, and it doesn’t even matter that he hasn’t said it back.  Jim doesn’t need the words, not really; that kind of declaration isn’t Vulcan, and Jim wouldn’t change who Spock is for anything.

“Spock.”  Jim is gasping for breath by the time he finally pulls away, and he grins at the way Spock simply switches his attentions to Jim’s ear, instead.  “There, um.  There is something I want to do, if we can.  If it’s okay.”

Spock presses his brow to the side of Jim’s head.  “Yes?”

“I want . . . I . . .”  The words stall on on tongue, and he tightens his grip around Spock’s back.  “Don’t you know?”

“I need to hear you say the words.”  Spock leans up to gaze seriously down at Jim, lust and solemnity warring over his features.  “There is a chance that I am misreading you, because . . .”  He swallows heavily.  “Because there is something that I want very much.  I am afraid I may be confusing your desires with my own.”

“You’re not.”  Jim gathers his courage with a deep breath.  “Will you . . . can we do that mind meld thing again?  Like we did the one time, when we were kids.”  He closes his eyes at the flare of heat in Spock’s eyes, shivering as fingertips brush over his temple.

“ _Yes_ ,” he hears, and then Spock’s fingers settle over his face.  “My mind to your mind—”

_> —my thoughts to your thoughts.  James._

_> Spock._

_Jim has wanted this for so long, the remembered comfort of Spock’s mind inaroundbetween his.  He’s only felt it once before, but it feels like coming home.  This is where he belongs: here with Spock, their minds twined around each other.  There is joy, and warmth, and excitement, and whether it’s from one or both of them he doesn’t know and doesn’t care.  Their thoughts are one, as they’re meant to be, and what one thinksfeelsknows so do they both._

_Spock’s mind, orderly and structured, takes form around him as a house with infinite rooms.  On every side the walls thrum and vibrate—powerful emotions held in check._

_> What happens if you let them loose?_

_> The same thing that happens when an earthquake hits.  Destruction, rubble, chaos.  Hours, if not days, to properly rebuild._

_The way is open, letting Jim pass through freely as he explores; it is some time before he comes to a closed door.  He touches it lightly, carefully, questioning.  A sense of sharp intelligence fills him, and curiosity tempered by nearly boundless patience.  The memory of gentle hands spreading over his face is so strong that it might easily be happening at this very moment._

_This is Spock’s end of a link with Sarek’s brother Sopek, Spock’s uncle and one of the Healers that Spock sees on a regular basis; Jim suddenly knows it as though he always has._

_> In the interest of privacy, Vulcans typically shield their familial bonds such as this._

_Jim has barely begun to wonder what their own link looks like when he finds himself standing in an open doorway, nearly out of Spock’s mind and yet incredibly deep within it.  He can feel himself stretched out from the other side and knows that it would be easy to slip through, as though some strange, faint gravity is urging him to fall back into his own body.  It’s easy to stay where he is, though; Spock’s mind is welcoming and warm, and the doorway that arches between them is tall and wide.  It used to be smaller, he knows, and further from the center of Spock’s mind.  Now it is larger than almost any other, and only three doors stand beyond it._

_Curious, Jim moves towards them.  Spock’s parents are easy to identify—the thin door separating them from Amanda’s mind seems like more of a formality than anything, and the imposing one that nearly touches it can surely be no one other than Spock’s father.  The final door stands on its own, however, thick and solid with hinges that have nearly rusted over from neglect._

_> James.  Wait._

_But Jim’s mental fingers are already brushing against the surface, his mind already filling with the sense of strict order and cool reserve, the memory of a solemn ceremony and two minds joining, thoughts of heat and madness and promised relief._

_T’Pring._

Jim jerks away, coming back to himself with what feels like a crash.  He’s breathing hard, staring up at Spock who is staring back with something in his eyes that looks like horror.  His hand is still stretched over Jim’s face, and his body resting over Jim’s suddenly feels confining instead of safe.

“Get off.”  

Jim shoves at Spock, panic threatening to consume him as he struggles to get free.  The fact that Spock rolls away without protest does little to calm him down, and Jim staggers to his feet despite the weakness in his legs.  He stands beside the bed, trembling with a mix of emotions he can’t bring himself to define, and watches Spock rise as well.

“What did I just see, Spock?”  Jim’s voice is rough, broken.  He’s wrong, he _must_ be wrong, and any second now Spock will explain and Jim will feel stupid but relieved and everything will be okay.  Except that Spock is looking back at him with wariness and obvious fear.  “Who the hell is T’Pring?”

“You . . .”  Spock makes a move like he’s going to reach out, but when Jim flinches back he drops his hand again.  “T’Pring is my _koon’ul-veh_ ,” he says unsteadily.  “What you saw was our _kah-ka_.”

“You know I don’t speak Vulcan,” Jim snaps.  “What does that _mean_?”

“A _k_ _ah-ka_ is a bond, made with the partner of your parents’ choice.  _Koon’ul-veh_ . . . there is no proper translation in Standard.”

“ _Try_.”  Jim can’t seem to catch his breath, and his heart feels ready to explode out of his chest.  

“James.”  Spock looks nearly desperate.  “It is not so easy.  There are nuances—”

“What is she to you?”

Spock bows his head as his eyes slide closed for a brief moment.  “She is my . . . not yet my wife, yet more than . . . we are betrothed.”

“Betrothed.”  The bottom drops out of Jim’s stomach.  His voice sounds hollow.  “You’re _engaged_?”

“As I said, there are nuances—”

“Bullshit.”  Horrified, Jim swipes at the tears that are gathering in his eyes.  “You’re supposed to marry her?”

Spock looks up again, and the sorrow that Jim can feel from him is echoed in his eyes.  “Yes.  But—”

“When?”

“When . . . James, I do not understand.”  Spock’s fear is nearly overwhelming, and Jim struggles to stand beneath the weight of it.  “I can not read you properly.  If you will simply let me touch—”  He stretches out his hand again, and again Jim stumbles back.  Spock looks gutted, but when he speaks his voice is almost normal.  “Are you asking when I am to marry her?  Or when our bond was formed?”

“Both.”  Jim scrubs a trembling hand over his mouth; he can still feel the echo of Spock’s kisses there.  “The first one.  When are you supposed to get married?”

Spock opens his mouth, closes it again, and spreads his hands in a surprisingly Human gesture.  “I do not know.  Perhaps never.”

“Never?”  Jim’s voice cracks on the word, and he blinks at Spock in dazed confusion.  “I don’t understand.”

“Our bonding . . . it has to do with biology.”

“What kind of biology?”

“Vulcan biology.”  Spock’s throat works as though he’s struggling against the words.  “I can not . . . we do not speak of it, James,” he says pleadingly.  “It is a very personal thing.”

“Personal,” Jim repeats flatly.  “Right.”

“Please.  I—”

“How long have you been engaged?” Jim demands, and his stomach drops at the way Spock hesitates.

“We underwent the _Kan-Telan_ at the customary age—”

“In _Standard_ , Spock.”

Spock swallows.  “As is traditional, we were bonded at the age of seven.”

“Seven.”  The math isn’t difficult.  “The first time we melded . . . you said there was a ritual you had to participate in.”  The look on Spock’s face is confirmation enough.  “You melded with me so you wouldn’t be nervous about bonding with _her_.  God.”

“I did not know, James.  I could never have anticipated how much you would come to mean to me.”

“You’ve been engaged to someone else since you were _seven_.”  Jim’s stomach is churning as he struggles to digest this news.  “And you never thought to mention that.”

“James—”

“The first time I kissed you,” Jim says over the weak protest, “when I asked you to be my boyfriend, when we—”  He has to look away from Spock, from the rumpled bed, or he’ll be sick.  “You never bothered to tell me that you were _already taken_.”

“There was no need to do so,” Spock says a little desperately.  “Our bond is a matter of necessity, nothing more.  T’Pring and I do not interact on a regular basis; we have not even seen each other in person for several years.  Given our disinclination for each other’s company, our relationship did not seem relevant—”  Spock cuts off suddenly as Jim turns to stare as though he’s never seen him before.

“It didn’t seem _relevant_?” he repeats dangerously.  “She wasn’t around, so you figured it would be fine for you to just screw around with someone else.”

Jim has never seen Spock as pale as he turns now.  “James.  No.”  He takes a shaky step forward.  “No, it was not like that.”

“No?”  This isn’t happening; can’t be happening.  “What was it like, then?”

“Our bonding was a necessity; it was never something I would have chosen for myself.”  His eyes, his mind are pleading with Jim for understanding.

“ _Why_ was it necessary?”  Jim’s hands clench into fists when Spock looks away.  “Damn it, Spock, you can’t expect me to understand if you won’t explain.  You owe me this much at least.  Please.”  He’s begging now; he knows, and doesn’t care.  “Please, explain it to me.”

Spock nods shallowly, and his shoulders hunch inward in a way that Jim has never seen before.  “As I said, it is a matter of . . . biology.”  He looks up at Jim again, a raw and vulnerable look in his eyes.  “Forgive me, James,” he says.  “This is . . . difficult.”  He takes a deep breath.

“The way in which Vulcans choose their mates is . . . not logical.  We shield it with ritual, and customs shrouded in antiquity.  There is there no Terran equivalent of which I am aware.  Nothing Human, certainly.”  He swallows heavily.  “The time of mating strips our minds from us; brings a madness which rips away our veneer of civilization.  It is . . .”  The words sound practiced, but they seem to stick in his throat, and he closes his eyes again.  “The _pon farr_ ,” he manages after a moment.  “We are driven by forces we can not control, to return home, and take a wife.”  Spock’s eyes open and lock on Jim’s again.  “Or die.”

“Die?”  Jim can barely speak the word through the horror that swamps him.

“That is why,” Spock says earnestly, “Vulcan children are bonded at a young age: to ensure that when the male’s Time comes, the fire in his blood will not rage unchecked.  T’Pring and I were bonded before my link with you grew; before the Healers began to suspect that I may never be forced to endure my Time at all.”

“You might not?”  Against his better judgement, hope sparks faintly in Jim’s heart.  “Why . . . why would they think that?  Because of your mom?”

“In part.”  Spock takes a hesitant step forward and looks relieved when Jim doesn’t retreat.  “It was my link with you, however, that led them to believe I will likely be spared.  If I am Human enough to share your dreams, it is thought that perhaps I will not be Vulcan enough to burn.”

“Okay.”  Jim struggles to take a deep breath, to think clearly.  “So if you don't need this bond with her, you can break it.”  Spock, about to step forward again, stops.  Jim can’t make sense of his expression or the confusing whirl of thoughts and emotions that he’s sensing through their link.  “You _can_ break it, can’t you?”

“It is . . . possible,” Spock says, and Jim feels a moment’s relief.

“Okay.  Then—”

“But I will not.”

Jim feels as though he’s just stumbled headlong into a wall.  “You . . . won’t?”  He stares at Spock, lost.  “Why?”

“Belief is not certainty.  It is possible that the Healers are mistaken in their analysis, that I may in fact require a mate after all.”

“No problem.”  It’s Jim’s turn to inch forward this time.  “You have me.”

“No, James.”  Spock gazes at him, longing and horror vying for control of his thoughts.  “When my Time comes— _if_ it comes—I will see any other male as a challenger encroaching on my territory.  Even if we were bonded, there is an unacceptably high chance that I would simply attack you.  It is too great a risk.”

“So . . . what?”  Jim refuses to understand, refuses to accept what he suspects Spock is saying.  “You’re just going to keep this bond with her and wait around to marry some girl you don’t even _like_?”  He doesn’t want to ask, but he has to.  “What about us?”

“There is no reason for our relationship to end,” Spock says, his voice hopeful.

Jim feels like he’s been punched in the gut.

“You wouldn’t have told me, would you?” he manages to ask past a throat gone impossibly tight.  “If I hadn’t found out on my own, you never would’ve told me about her at all.  You’d have just let me go on thinking you were mine.”

“I _am_ yours.”

“You’re _not_!” Jim shouts, stumbling back.  He feels dirty, covered in filth he’ll never be able to scrub away.  “You never have been!  And you’ve turned me into . . .”  His gaze falls on the bed again, and he feels the room spin.

“James, please, you must—”

“Do you love me?”

The question seems to catch Spock off guard.  “James?”

“Just tell me, Spock.”  He’s shaking; he can’t stop.  “Do you love me?”

“I . . .”  Spock looks helplessly back at him.  “James.  You are my _t’hy’la_ ,” he says, and Jim feels something inside of him turn to ice.

“That’s just a word, Spock,” he says flatly.  “Just another Vulcan word that I don’t understand.”

Pain washes through him—Spock’s, his own, merged together in a wave so strong it nearly knocks Jim from his feet.  He can’t bear it.  It’s shredding his thoughts, threatening to drive him mad.  The unchecked emotion, the sheer force of it, is too much, and with the last of his strength he reaches out to the doorway he saw between their minds, and imagines the thickest, strongest steel door he can.

The torrent eases immediately, and Jim can breathe again.  Spock is the one staggering now, staring at Jim in mute astonishment.

“I don’t want you in my head anymore, Spock.”  Jim’s voice is weak, cracked and rough as if he’s been screaming.  Maybe he has.  “I don’t want you anywhere near me.”

“I do not . . .”  Spock stands glued to the spot as Jim begins to pull on the clothes scattered across the floor, trying not to think about how they got there.  “I do not understand.”

“It’s simple.”  Jim shrugs on his shirt and grabs the bag he hasn’t bothered to unpack, trying to hide the way his hands are still shaking.  He fights to keep his voice normal past the lump in his throat.  “We’re through.”

“James, please, you are being unreasonable.”  Whether Spock is angry, or sorry, or both, Jim can’t tell.  He can’t sense even a hint of Spock’s thoughts anymore.  Better this way, he tells himself; better to be numb than to endure that pain again.  “You have not allowed me to properly explain.”

“Are you bonded to someone else?”

Spock’s jaw clenches.  “Yes.”

“Will you break that bond?  Make one with me instead?”

“James—”

“Will you?”

Spock’s face goes blank.  “No.”

“Then there isn’t really anything left to explain.  I won’t be your whore, Spock,” Jim says stonily.  “Not anymore.”

He doesn’t pause until he’s standing on the pavement in front of the hotel.  His mom has transport back to Riverside arranged for him, but not until the end of the week.  That’s too far away, and Jim can’t handle the thought of going back to campus anyway.  Not now.

 _She knew_ , he realizes, and a fresh burst of pain breaks over him.  He remembers how she sat him down for a talk, back when he and Spock were kids, making sure he knew that they shouldn’t get too serious about each other.  The relief she hadn’t been able to hide when they broke up; the looks that she and Spock’s mom had traded when they’d heard the news.

She’d known, and she hadn’t told him.  _No one_ had told him.

He has money in his personal account, saved from his summer jobs; there’s plenty to buy a spot on a public transport back to Iowa.  He doesn’t look at the time during the trip, doesn’t let himself wonder if Spock has gone back for the second half of his exam.  He doesn’t think of anything at all but the aching, empty spot in his head where Spock used to be.  It takes the attendant several tries to get his attention when they finally arrive in Des Moines, and Jim has to rush to make the final transit shuttle to Riverside.

It's warmer in Iowa than it was in San Francisco, but Jim can't seem to stop shivering.  He makes an effort to hide it as he approaches his house, but no one is there when he steps inside.  No reason for anyone to be, really; he wasn't supposed to be back for three more days.  He'd somehow forgotten, though, that Frank is gone and his mom is still working on the refit of the _Yorktown_ ; he's alone, caught off-guard.  The house is empty and quiet, and the lies he prepared about getting sick and having to come home early die in his throat.

He can't stay here. This house isn't home; never really has been, despite Frank's best efforts. So he leaves.

Jim can't say for sure how he manages to get out to the farm.  He remembers catching a bus, headed nowhere in particular, and the next thing he knows he's walking up the dusty front path and picking the lock on the front door because he can't remember where they hid the spare key.  Inside it's dusty; they've stayed in town for the past few summers, and though his mom hires someone to air it out once a year it doesn't look like they've been by yet.

The stairs still creak in the same familiar pattern as he climbs them, and the echoes that they spawn, he thinks, are hanging in the air.  The clatter of his feet as he raced up and down, the whispered conversations that he overheard perched halfway down with his hands clutching the banister.  He pushes them aside.  He doesn't want to deal with those memories tonight.

The water is still turned on, at least, and he's dirty and smelly from his trip.  He strips, leaving his clothes discarded in a pile on the bathroom floor as he steps under water that's as hot as he can stand it.  Thankfully there's soap and a washcloth stashed under the sink; he works up a thick lather and starts to scrub the dirt from his skin.

The water already has him flushed bright red, and each sweep of the washcloth makes his skin tingle sharply.

He presses harder.

He's scrubbing with such force that it hurts now, but it's still not enough because he can still feel the ghost of warm hands, of soft, tentative lips pressed against his body.  He wants to drown the memory, to wash it down the drain so that the lack of it won't hurt anymore.  But his head is still empty; he's still cut off, still alone.  He barely notices the tears that have started running down his face, or the fact that he's sitting at the bottom of the tub now, his knees pressed to his chest.

He misses Spock, and he hates him, and he hates himself because he's weak enough to still want him in spite of everything.  Hates himself more than anything, because there’s a part of him that’s not even sorry.  A part of him that would do it all again, even knowing how it ends.

This is what it feels like, he knows now, to fall off the edge of the world with no one there to catch you after all.

 

 


	18. Daffodil Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Because the kid who’s coming is _Vulcan_ , for heaven’s sake. There’s nothing fun about Vulcans. They’re logical and boring and, if Jim’s being completely honest, just the tiniest bit scary. And this is the boy who will be in his house, sharing his room, sleeping in his brother’s bed. How is he even supposed to start trying to make friends with someone so . . . well, alien?_

**Author's Note:** Spock insisted on presenting his side before we finish.

 

 

Spock opens his eyes, rising from his meditative pose with the knowledge that it has once again been useless.

For nearly a month he had held on to the foolish, human hope that James would see reason once he had calmed down, would allow Spock to explain himself once the shock was not so fresh.  Eventually, gradually, that hope had turned to ashes; he has not spoken with James in three weeks, four days, and fifteen point seven hours.  

Without James’s consent and cooperation, the link between them can not be severed, leaving Spock with no option but to deal with the effects through meditation and mental controls.  But no matter what methods he employs, the painful blankness in his mind refuses to ease; all of his efforts at veiling it have utterly failed.  The door to James’s mind remains as cold and solid as ever, perhaps even sturdier now than when it first appeared.  The shields that James has raised are staggeringly strong: strong enough that Spock is uncertain if he could break through them even if he tried.  He will not, of course.  If James wishes to cut off their connection, that is his right.  It is of no concern to Spock.

Vulcans do not feel concern, he reminds himself.

He closes his eyes again, and breathes deeply.

His letters of acceptance arrived this morning.  There will be a ceremony where he will be issued a formal invitation by the admissions council, and when Spock accepts he will be officially considered a student of the Vulcan Science Academy.  He will inform Starfleet of his declination to enroll; he can not bear the thought of returning there without . . .

The empty space within him aches, often preventing him—as it has now—from successfully entering a meditative state.  It is unbearable.  He already finds it nearly impossible to focus on such mundane tasks as eating or sleeping; how he managed to endure the second half of his Starfleet exam is a riddle he can not answer.  In truth, he has very little memory of the remainder of that day, and can only recall with any real clarity the first time he surfaced from his meditation back aboard the _Nomad_ on its trip back to Vulcan.

Spock feels reasonably certain that the gap in his memory should concern him.

Vulcans do not feel concern.

He can not be sufficiently Vulcan in this state, and a Vulcan existence is all that is left to him.  Spock has known for days what he must do, though he had harbored the illogical hope that he was mistaken, that he might yet master the rage of emotions that are boiling through his blood.  He can not; not alone.  They are too strong, stronger than he is by far.  He feels as though he will burst, or else that he will implode, and he can not bear it.

His mother, he fears, will be hurt by his decision.  She will believe that he is choosing to reject those parts of him that come from her, choosing to reject whatever shreds of humanity she has passed on.  He has no words of comfort for her; she will, after all, be correct.  If this is what it means to be Human, then he wants no part of it.  Still, he does not wish to cause her pain.

She will understand, Spock assures himself, moving to his window to stare out at the garden; she relishes his pain no more than he can endure the idea of hers.  He wonders briefly if he will still desire her comfort when he returns from Gol.

No, he decides; he will not.  He will desire nothing at all.

That, after all, is the point.

 

 

  


END PART ONE


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